


Asylum (a Supernatural story)

by uberneko_zero



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Brothers, Caring, Complicated Relationships, Father Knows Best, Fighting, Forbidden Love, Ghosts, Like father like son, Love, M/M, Medication, Mental Institutions, Monsters, Pining, Psychological Horror, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Self-Sacrifice, Spirits, Supernatural - Freeform, Therapy, Violence, family split, insanity runs in the family, trapped in the system, you aren't crazy if they really are after you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-05 12:37:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11578224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uberneko_zero/pseuds/uberneko_zero
Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother. (Dean/Sam, AU)*Disclaimer* I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this is on FF.net, username uberneko-zero. I will be crossposting and moving this over.

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

 **A/N:** There shouldn’t really be any spoilers. I am using some characters that show up possibly into season 2 which is mostly all I’ve seen at the time of this writing. Though I did watch the entire animated series first.

(((The anime starts out slow the first couple episodes, but then it is _amazing_. And different enough from the original show that both are totally worth watching. The animated series is more slashy, which I love (*ETA* I rescind this comment. The TV show got waaay more slashy than I ever could have guessed. Haha. I love it.) The anime also condenses the yellow-eyes plot into the one main storyline. Streamlines it so to speak. And they ‘fix’ and refine some scenes and characters into something better.)))

The most spoilery thing you might find about this fic is that a character exists, and that I try to keep them IC. You know, just in case you haven’t watched the show that far or something. But I’m totally changing around personal histories and stuff.

 **FYI:** The only other thing I want to say is that I am not a fan of incest. AT ALL. But Sam and Dean just... I dunno. Maybe I’m just picking up on the chemistry I see onscreen but they just don’t strike me as brothers really. And they make such good pair. Hell, if they even make jokes in the show about them looking like they are a couple... lol. Just sayin’.

* * *

Ch. 1: Prologue

_3/15/1988 Kansas_

It was black out. Night. Dean could hardly see anything, but he was sure he’d made the shot. He was positive that he’d hit it. His small hands shook as they lowered the sawed off shotgun. His heart was still hammering, and the sound of the blast was still ringing in his ears.

“Good job, son,” his father said, clapping him on the back. He lowered the infrared goggles from his face and handed them to the 9 year old boy.

Dean took them and held them up. He could see clearly now, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to. His quarry lay dead, shot through the heart.

His dad seemed proud of him.

He lowered the goggles and tried to figure out if it was adrenaline that he was feeling, or if he was merely going to be sick. “Thanks, Dad.”

* * *

_12/23/1993 Lawrence, Kansas_

“Boys?” Mary Winchester called out as she arrived home early from an abbreviated flight. The client’s negotiations had wrapped up more quickly than planned so she had unexpectedly been gifted with getting home two hours early. She locked the front door and reached down to slip her high heels off. “Boys, are you here?”

She frowned as she put her leather folio down on the kitchen counter. It was nearly 7 p.m. Everyone should have been home at this time.

“Mommy!” Sam yelled energetically as he barreled down the hallway and crashed into her with an equally energetic hug. “I missed you! What’s for dinner? How come you’re home early?”

“I missed you, too, sweetie,” she said, tussling his soft, curling fair hair. “Our trip didn’t take as long as we thought it would, so that means I get extra time with you.” She tapped him gently on the nose, laughing when he shook his head and swatted at her hand.

“Moooom,” he whined. “I hate when you do that!”

Mary looked around the darkened house, still feeling uneasy. “Where’s your brother? And where is your father? Shouldn’t he be making you dinner?”

“Dean went to buy me some EasyMac&Cheese,” the bright-eyed boy chirped, bouncing on his heels.

 _EasyMac..._ Mary shook her head, brows drawing together. There had been an unopened box of them in the pantry when she’d left for her trip. She knew how Sammy loved the stuff. But how in the world would he have made it through a whole box? He would have had to be eating it every day this past week.

The lock in the front door turned and Dean’s surprised face appeared as the door swung open. He was wearing a pair of jeans that looked practically slept in, an equally wrinkled black t-shirt bearing the band name Megadeth and his favorite flannel shirt over that. “Hey, Mom,” he said casually. “What are you doing home?”

“Where were you?” she asked sharply. “How could you leave your brother home alone like that? He’s only 10.” She knew where he had supposedly gone, and the plastic grocery bag in his hand made that even clearer, but she couldn’t understand how he had thought that leaving Sammy by himself was okay. It made her feel slightly panicked. How long had he been gone? Was it only to the store and back? Where was John?

“I-I just went to the store,” her 14 year old son stammered. He’d absolutely frozen in the doorway and an almost guilty look was flickering upon his face like he wasn’t sure if he was _supposed_ to feel bad or not. It reminded her of his father. He was watching her face intently with wide green eyes. “Sammy loves his EasyMac--” he tried to explain.

“I know he does!” she snapped, feeling her younger son recoil at her tone. “Dean, where is your father?”

“I’m n-not sure. He said he’d be back in a few days.” Dean was sure that he’d never seen his mother so angry. He wasn’t even sure why she was. He was 14, for chrissakes. He was able to take care of himself. And Sammy was 10, not a whole lot younger; did she think that he was going to drown himself in the tub like a baby if he was left alone for 20 minutes?

They were careful. They weren’t going to let anything in the house. Sammy knew to salt the windows and he’d even gotten really good with the revolver. So why was she freaking out? Didn’t she think that dad would train them right?

Part of him wondered though, seeing her reaction, if _this_ was why dad always hunted when she was gone for work. Now that he thought of it, dad had always joked around saying, ‘Don’t tell your mother,’ with a conspiratorial wink. Dean had thought it was just a guy thing. A way of bonding. He’d asked his dad before why he wasn’t supposed to talk about their training or hunting trips and he’d said that he didn’t want her to worry.

Just now, ‘worry’ didn’t seem to be the half of it. She looked furious.

“That’s it!” she declared with finality. “I can’t believe him! How could he--?” She swiped her bag off of the counter. “This is just so--!”

Dean was starting to get nervous. Something big was about to happen. “Mom, it’s no big deal. We can take care of ourselves.” He made himself shut the door and lock it behind him, and bravely brought the grocery bag into the kitchen as if nothing was wrong.

”How often does he leave like this?” she asked him, her voice becoming softer but not less intense. It quavered slightly.

“Now and then,” Dean said shiftily, trying to make light of it, sensing something was about to change.

“Sammy, honey?” she turned to his little brother and crouched down in front of him. Her hands rested on his small shoulders and she looked him in the eye quite seriously. “Does Daddy trust you to take care of yourselves a lot?” She sugar-coated her voice, which seemed to confuse Sam.

 Sam glanced at Dean as if unsure of what he was supposed to do. He didn’t seem to understand why his brother was acting strangely, and why he wasn’t being honest with their mom.

“Eyes over here, baby,” Mary said, pulling Sam’s attention back to her and disallowing any sort of silent communication they might have had. “Does Daddy leave you at home a lot?”

”Well, sure,” he said uncertainly.

She flinched. “Is he gone for a long time?”

Sam was still looking confused, but now he was also starting to look anxious. He was catching on. ”Not more than a few days, tops,” he blurted out, his dark grey eyes, too large in his pale face, brimming with emotion. He looked like he might have added, _‘scout’s honor!’_ “He tries to always be home when you are, though. Since he misses you.”

Sam thought this should make her happy, so he didn’t understand Dean hissing under his breath, or their mom grabbing him by the arm. He wouldn’t have understood that his words had just confirmed that their dad was doing things behind their mother’s back.

Mary rose abruptly. ”We’re leaving. Right now.”

Sammy couldn’t have known that she was feeling betrayed. Or that something like this had happened before, when he was really little and that their parents had nearly divorced over it. But Dean knew.

“Wait! Mom!”

Dean realized in that moment that his father had been keeping secrets. Mom had never been okay with this after all. She hadn’t come to see reason; she just hadn’t known about the continued training, the hunting trips, any of it.

He had to do something. They couldn’t just leave Dad like this. Even if Dad had been wrong, lying to him as well as her. But he was just doing what he thought was best. He just wanted them safe.

“Dean!” Sam called out, pulling at the grip on his arm.

Mary Winchester looked upon her oldest son. She was like a statue. Beautiful and made of stone. “I see him in you, Dean.” Her voice seemed strange. Regretful? “Already, you’re protecting his bizarre behavior.”

“But Mom, you don’t understand! Dad, he-!” he broke off as understanding dawned sharply and stole his protest. “You’re taking Sammy away from me?”

 _She’s going to leave me **and** Dad? _ He felt so lost then. Cold. As if he had already watched half of his family walk away and disappear over the horizon.

She looked at him frankly, with an adult’s seriousness, placing the burden on him of growing up too fast in this moment. Her eyes were a steely blue-grey, similar to Sammy’s. “Between me and your father, you would choose to stay with him, wouldn’t you?”

Choose? How could he choose? Maybe he got along better with his dad, but he loved them both. And it wasn’t just about them... it was really a choice between Dad, or both Mom and Sammy. How could he stand to lose Sam, whom he loved best of all?

“I-” Dean turned tormented eyes to his baby brother’s face. “I- don’t know.” His dad needed him... but what about Sammy? Was she really going to take him? Sam was all he had when Dad was gone for days on end. What would he do without him? Who would protect him? His mom didn’t know... couldn’t and wouldn’t know. How could she keep him safe?

His dad or Sammy? Whom would he pick? Who was more important? Could he really leave his dad like this? Let him come home to an empty house, not knowing what had happened to them? Should he let his dad’s training guide him? His first duty was to take care of and protect his little brother...

“Dean,” Sam was crying. He tried to pretend he wasn’t, but his lip was trembling and his eyes were glazed with tears that would be falling down his cheeks at any minute.

“Sammy... I can’t leave Dad.” If his mom was really walking out on them, his dad would be a mess when he found out. Even so, saying it hurt. And the crestfallen expression that met his words felt like a knife had been stuck in his chest. “I just want to make sure he’s ok. I’ll meet up with you later.” His own cheeks felt wet for some reason. He wiped at them.

Sam finally succeeded in twisting his arm out of his mother’s grip and ran to Dean, throwing his arms around him in a desperate hug. Dean returned the embrace and could feel the younger boy’s slight body shaking. “Promise me,” he sniffed. “When Dad’s ok, you have to come back.”

Dean raised his eyes to his mother’s. They’d never looked so stern or so cold. He wondered if she’d allow him to keep such a promise. “I will,” he said softly.

Sam raised tear-streaked eyes to his. “Promise?” he demanded.

Dean nodded. “I promise.” He only hoped he’d find a way not to break his word.

* * *

_6/09/2003 Stonybrook State Hospital, NY_

“So,” the psychiatrist said, “Dean.”

“Yes?” Dean answered glibly, sprawling disrespectfully in the chair across from the doctor.

“Your file says that you have been in and out of detention centers since you were 16.”

“That’s right,” he said un-apologetically. It couldn’t be helped, after all.

“And you were living with your father during this time?”

Dean nodded and sighed. That was around the time his father was institutionalized. “Look, I get that you are trying to ‘know’ me and all, but can’t you just read the damn file on your own? I’m getting tired of all this yes-man crap.”

“Of course I could read it on my own, but I want to know your thoughts on what it says.”

“I’ve gone through this like 100 times now and I hate repeats. If you were all so anxious to give what I thought any credence, would I really be sitting in this chair right now, talking to you?”

“I know it must be frustrating for you--”

“You’re damn right it is! This may be your first time around the block, but it isn’t mine. You think with all the money you all spent on fancy schools to get your certificates in head-shrinking, that you could damn well learn to take some notes when people are talking to you.”

Dr. Kubrick put down his file and steepled his hands. “Very well, Mr. Winchester, why don’t you tell me why you think you’re here.” His tone was vaguely sarcastic.

Dean gave him a surly look. “Why don’t _you_ go to hell.”

The man sighed and stood, gathering some paperwork and putting it into his leather briefcase. “I think we’re done for today.”

“You think?” Dean retorted.

“I’ll put in my recommendation for your new prescription and we’ll start it next week.”

Dean stiffened. “Hey, wait a minute. I don’t need pills, Doc. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

The psychiatrist shrugged. “Of course. And that is why I was sitting over here, and you over there.” He closed his briefcase with a snap.

Dean lunged up from his chair but found himself grabbed and restrained by two orderlies he hadn’t noticed until now. “There’s nothing wrong with me!” he shouted as the doctor calmly exited the room. “Hey--!” He strained against the iron grip upon him. “ _I said, there’s nothing wrong with me!!_ ”

* * *

TBC


	2. In Front of Me

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 2: In Front of Me   
  


_ 9/23/2006 10:15 a.m. Oak Grove Sanitarium, MI. _

“Good morning, Dr. Singer,” a nurse greeted the newest addition to the staff. 

“Good morning, Nancy,” he replied with a practiced smile. He was a little distracted this morning. It was his first week at the facility and already, one of his patient’s cases was getting to him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He’d reviewed everyone’s patient information, medication and personal history as was typical before the first face-to-face meeting, but one person was standing out to him especially.

Dean Winchester, male, age 27.

“Good morning, Doctor,” an orderly nodded to him pleasantly. “You’re meeting Winchester today, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

Dean seemed to be something of a local legend around here.

“Good luck, Doc.”

He kept his concern from showing upon his face in response, and merely uttered a ‘thank you’. Dean was a special case. He manifested symptoms from what could have been several disorders and yet he somehow defied classification. He was atypical. He was also said to have a taste for physical confrontation when he felt provoked, as well as an odd and secretive manner. He mostly kept to himself yet would engage the other residents in a friendly, seemingly open manner at times. He enjoyed card games or other activities that could be used to gamble. 

It was hard to determine from the case notes, but the difficulty other professionals had had in working with him might have been due to methodology.

Female doctors had been forbidden as Dean had a penchant for trying to seduce them which had not been wholly unsuccessful. Rumor had it that he had even convinced one to alter his medication, and it was during this time that some of his stranger behaviour had occurred. In one instance, he had grabbed a piece of cutlery, proclaiming it to be silver, and proceeded to attack one of the other patients with it.

In the file, it was noted that Dean, upon interview, had calmly and un-remorsefully stated that he ‘had to be sure’. The accosted patient sustained minor injuries and had been moved to another facility. Dean had also been moved, and that is when he came to stay at Oak Grove. It had been 2 years now.

Dr. Singer entered his office, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. He liked having time to prepare. Time to relax and put himself in the correct frame of mind for helping his patients. It involved separating from the overly analytical and worried mindset that he came into while poring over each person’s file. There were notes from the other doctors, prescriptions, and the diagnosis, as well as a record of any notable behavior. He didn’t pay much attention to the other doctors’ assessments of the patients, past understanding the way in which they would have been treated. A diagnosis was not set in stone. Sometimes there were things that could be overlooked or missed and that could result in a misdiagnosis. He felt very strongly that each doctor should re-evaluate the patient and decide whether they agreed or disagreed with the assessment and whether they felt treatment was worthwhile as it was.

This Dean character... he felt as if something was amiss in all of this.

The doctor settled into his hard-backed chair and rubbed a hand over his face.

_ Delusions. Occasional violence, especially when feeling challenged. A sharp mind.  _ His gut instinct would be to look into mild schizophrenia. Although according to the notes, Dean could be quite social when he felt like it. He did not seem to exhibit any problems with emotional expression or flattened affect. But then again, he tended to be a loner.

There was no indication of what these ‘delusions’ might be. Without knowing this, it was hard to say whether a person was actually experiencing visual or aural hallucinations like one might if they were schizophrenic or whether they were paranoid delusional. The difference would be believing the FBI was after you to kill you, versus seeing agents actually stalking you. And perhaps to some that seemed like splitting hairs, but the treatment of such would change depending on such things. Not to mention the entire diagnosis.

He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath inward and slowly breathed out. These first interviews, truth be told, made him a little anxious. It was truly walking into the unknown, unprepared. On more than one occasion, he’d seen patients who were so unstable, misunderstood and at the end of their rope, or suffering from inappropriate medication, that he’d been attacked. It wasn’t  _ always  _ physical, but that sort of personal aggression was hard to deal with professionally. Especially when maintaining an unflappable exterior was crucial to working with a specific patient. With many violent or aggressive types, showing even a flicker of fear or of being startled was the death knell and progress from that point on would be impossible.

Part of what troubled him was the benzodiazepines Dean had been on during the last two years. Varying doses, and a rotation of different drugs, but it all started with Dean’s previous psychiatrist, Dr. Kubrick. The initial dose at the time when the decision to administer the drugs was made was atypically high. Meant to relieve anxiety or paranoia, the drugs could also paradoxically cause an increase in aggression and behavioral disinhibition. Not to mention interaction with other prescriptions mentioned in his patient record. There was a possibility that Dean’s attack on a fellow patient was brought on by medication he was taking. The incident happened only about a month or so after his new regimen began. Afterwards, his hostility remained fairly consistent, though his doses were discretely lowered during the transition here to Oak Grove. Dr. Kubrick continued to see him in the weeks before he was moved, but his notes seemed strangely abbreviated and uninvolved. 

Until now, Dr. Kubrick was overseeing his case from afar, sending in therapists for the one-on-one, and coming in person only once every 6 months or so.

It was all very atypical. Even the rumors bothered him. Why would the staff be convinced that it was Dean’s doing that his medication was changed when it was clear from the file and the doctors notes that the change was made by none other than Dr. Kubrick?

A knock came at the door. His time was up.

“Come in,” he intoned.

A dark-skinned orderly with a face as expressive as a stone wall poked his head in. “You ready?” he asked the doctor. 

His name was Paulo, Dr. Singer knew. He was actually a nice guy, just extremely serious while working. He happened to have an excellent game face which is why he’d been chosen to be Winchester’s escort, most likely.

He nodded his assent and a sullen, dark-haired young man was propelled into the room. “In you go, tiger,” Paulo said. 

Winchester shrugged off his hand and threw himself into one of the stiff leather chairs on the other side of the desk. Paulo took up residence outside the office door until he was needed.

“So, you’re the new shrink, huh?” the young man said, eyeing him and looking quite unimpressed. “You don’t look like much.” He tossed out the insult casually. “You lose a game of cards to get this gig or what?”

“You seem to be quite a celebrity here. Maybe I  _ won _ that game of cards.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Alright, alright,” he nodded in grudging respect. “So maybe you don’t have a stick lodged up your ass after all. Nice to see once in a while.”

“So, Dean--”

Dean shook his head and leaned forward, giving the psychiatrist a conspiratorial look. “Just call me Batman.”

Dr. Singer quirked a brow.

“Goddamn, you’re serious, Doc.” Dean settled back into his chair. “It was a joke. You do understand what jokes are, don’t you?” His hands were never still. Just now they formed a loose sort of cage where they were cupped between his knees and looked like a Rubix cube or something similar would be quite at home there. It would probably just be something to fiddle with. Dean didn’t seem to have the patience to actually solve it.

“From you? I think it’s a defense mechanism,” Dr. Singer said, giving him a look much like the type given to a wayward son. It was one of those no-nonsense, cut-the-B.S. kind of looks.

Dean laughed a little. “Yeah, right. So what’s your name, Doc? Apparently I didn’t get the memo, and Dr. Evil didn’t exactly keep me in the loop.”

“Are you referring to Dr. Kubrick?”

“Yeah, a certified asshole. You know, you don’t need a degree for that sort of thing - for some people being an ass just comes naturally. But I guess if he tried being like that in the real world instead of here he’d be getting his ass kicked. I’d be first in line.” (Personally, Dean felt that the only thing the man had going for him is that he was vaguely reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in  _ The Shining _ . Though it was in a craggier, Jesus-freak sort of way.) 

“He’s had a long and highly esteemed career,” the psychiatrist said. “If you think he is bad at what he does, why do you think that is the case?”

Dean shrugged. “Ass-kisser, maybe?” The younger man was starting to look a little agitated, though he was hiding it. His eyes were flicking around the room from time to time. “How the hell should I know? It’s not like we can lodge formal complaints in these holes.”

“Did you like Stonybrook more than you like it here at Oak Grove?”

“The nurses there were hotter,” Dean muttered.

“I think that will be all for today, Dean. Thank you for your time.”

Dean gave him a weird look. “Why thank me? It’s not like I have a choice to be here or not.”

“There is always a choice.”

“That human-shaped brick wall outside begs to differ.”

The psychiatrist stood and extended his hand to his patient. Dean gave him another strange, calculating look but rose to clasp and shake it. “Pleased to meet you, Dean. I’m Dr. Robert Singer.” 

“Nice ta meetcha, Bobby,” Dean returned with a flippant smile.

* * *

_ January 2007... _

Dr. Singer met with Dean twice a week for the next several months. During this time, he began weaning him off of the benzodiazepines. He had yet to get the younger man to open up and mention anything pertaining to delusions, anxiety or hallucinations. In fact, aside from a short attention span that seemed to stem from boredom and a hair-trigger temper, he appeared to be pretty normal.

This did not indicate that he  _ was _ , not by any means, because he could have merely been hiding suspect behavior. It was not uncommon to encounter extremely talented actors in places like this.

His hostility, according to other staffers, appeared to be lessening as his doses decreased. It was a good sign. He might still contain all sorts of aggression but he was showing less susceptibility to acting on it.

* * *

_ April, 2007... _

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Singer asked Dean during the course of another session. It had been four months now.

“In general? Peachy.”

“And how did you feel when you first started seeing Dr. Kubrick?” What he really wanted to know was how Dean felt personally in regards to the changes in his medication.

A dark look crossed over Dean’s face. “Pissed off.”

“In general? Or just at him personally?”

“All of the above,” Dean nearly growled. “He was a dick. Didn’t listen to a thing I had to say and started pumping me full of chemicals. And he’s supposed to help people  **not** be crazy? I felt like a total basket case because of him.”

“You felt normal before you started seeing him?”

“Well, yeah. There’s nothing wrong with me, Doc. I got stuck in here because of a misunderstanding.”

Dr. Singer sat back, digesting that. So Dean did not think he had any cause to be here, receiving treatment. He did act rather normal, it was true. But it was rare to find someone living in a facility for so long that hadn’t exhibited some erratic behavior that would have caused them to be here in the first place. And if Dean was mostly normal, why wouldn’t he have been released? Many patients only stayed here until suitable medications had been worked out that would enable them to live their lives more or less like everyone else.

“Why did you attack the man at Stonybrook?”

Dean shrugged. “He had awful hair. Couldn’t let that go, could I? It was driving me nuts, staring at it day after day.”

“Dean,” Dr. Singer warned.

The young man rolled his eyes and glared, eyes averted. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Arresting green eyes tilted to meet his. “Maybe he was a werewolf,” he intoned ominously. 

The doctor met his stare seriously, wondering if there was any truth to the statement. Rather, if Dean believed what he was saying.

Dean’s serious face dissolved suddenly and he laughed with a mocking smile. “Werewolves, Bobby?  _ Seriously? _ Man, but I had you going.”  

“That’s Dr. Singer, to you,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, whatever, Bobby,” Dean said good-naturedly. “Listen, you got any more of those books you let me see before? I’m getting bored with the selection of chick novels, which is practically all they’ve got down in the common room, and they’re fresh out of Hustler.”

“I do. But what makes you interested in things like folklore, Mayan rites and the history of gun-smithing?” Dean was showing definite tendencies towards such subjects, and had for several weeks now. It had taken some time to ferret out something of interest to his patient... lots of systematic word-dropping, spread out over the last many months. It had to be done slowly, and inconsistently so as not to be obvious. Just now was the first time he was going so far as to bring it up.

“I read it for the articles,” Dean said with a wink.

Amusingly enough, it was Dean’s boredom in this place and his dislike of structure that had the spiky haired young man get up in the middle of a session to start gauchely going through his bookshelf, exposing the very information Dr. Singer had been looking to obtain. Luckily, he had prepared for such a scenario, and had a diverse sampling of subjects represented. He was surprised at Dean’s selection of a dusty old book describing the history of Religion in the greater British Isles, as well as Common Lore, and even the Pagan beliefs in the area. Especially as it was located next to a book on Nude photography. He was even more surprised that Dean seemed to know some Latin.

“Really,” Dr. Singer said blandly. “And here I was wondering if you actually knew how to read.” 

“What can I say?” Dean said with a smirk. “Some of the smart ones are born pretty. Don’t be fooled by the packaging.” He got up and stretched before sauntering over to a book-lined shelf. “We can’t all look like eggheads or the gene pool would be in some seriously deep shit.” 

Dr. Singer shook his head. Dean Winchester certainly did not suffer from a low opinion of himself.

“Actually, this stuff reminds me of my dad,” he said as he skimmed the titles on the books’ spines. “He used to read to me and my brother when we were young, tell us stories. He also liked guns and stuff. He was a hunter.”

Dr. Singer made a mental note to look into Dean’s family history. “Where is he now?”

“Dunno.”

“And your brother?”

He was surprised to see Dean’s shoulders tense. “Around.”

“You haven’t said much about your family. Were you and your brother close?”

“Aw, who cares?” Dean said, thumbing through a heavy tome. “We haven’t seen each other in years.” That awkward stiffness in his frame remained. “Are we done here? I wanna get something to eat.”

“Sure.”

“I’m borrowing this one,” Dean said on his way out, covering his agitation with one of his usual flash smiles. “Thanks.”

* * *

Dean slipped out of the office and around the corner, his own personal bodyguard picking up the rear. “Hey, tin-man,” he called over his shoulder at Paulo. “Have a heart and piss off, would ya?”

“That’s the worst Wizard of Oz reference I’ve ever heard,” the tall man said. “And you got it all wrong. The tin man was missing a brain, not a heart - that was the lion.”

“Well aren’t you just a wealth of pop culture information,” Dean said sarcastically. He rolled his shoulders in irritation. He might not have had some kind of apple pie childhood, but he didn’t need to be schooled on the Wizard of Fucking Oz. “Besides, tell me that I could have made a crack about your brain without you trying to kick the shit out of me.”

“There is no ‘try’.”

“Thank you, Yoda,” he muttered. He really wanted to be left alone. He felt sorely agitated and his mood was not improving. He felt the familiar itch for a good old fistfight. Raising his voice, he said, “I would totally own your ass in a fight. But I don’t need the extra tarnish on my reputation.”

“Right, like anyone would see more tarnish upon an already completely tarnished record.”

“It isn’t that bad,” he scoffed.

“Yes, Winchester, it is. You’re psychotic, man.”

“Whatever. I don’t see you pissing yourself standing here next to me.”

“Well, I’m not going out of my way to piss you off.”

“Really?” He said with a scowl. “I  _ feel _ pretty pissed off right now. Maybe I’ll go all Tyson on your ass and bite your fucking ear off.”

“In your dreams, princess. I’d have you on the ground, rolling around in agony before you could even blink.”

“Nothing like a bit of male bonding, huh?”

A few minutes later, Dean took the left turn towards his room instead of taking the route to the cafeteria. His ominous shadow said, “I thought you wanted to eat?”

Dean shifted the book he was carrying to his other hand. He gave a semi-lewd grin. “Naw, I’d rather polish the jewels a little before the roommate comes back from stuffing his face.” He turned the handle of his room. “So, seriously, Polly, piss the fuck off.”

He didn’t bother to look at the man before shutting the door in his face.

_ God damn. You’d think that being kept in semi-isolation would afford a little more privacy. _ Instead, he always had some meat-head or another stalking his every move. 

Paulo was alright. Had a sense of humor at least, despite appearances. But Dean just wanted some room to breathe. Maybe he should stage something really crazy if just to get tossed in a single room with a door that locked only on the outside.

He flopped down on the thin, dingy bed and put his hands behind his head. 

He hadn’t let himself think of Sammy in a long time.

Damn Bobby for bringing him up. For dredging up these feelings that were best left buried. 

He hadn’t seen his brother in ages. He wondered if Sam even knew where he was. Or if he did, if he would even think of coming to see him. Sammy was only 10 years old the last time that they’d seen each other. He could still see the fear in those tear-filled eyes, could still feel the ache in his chest as they embraced for what would be the last time. He still resented his mother for splitting them up. Sure, he could understand her feelings regarding their dad, but still. The way she’d gone about it had fucked everything up.

And now he’d gone and gotten himself stuck in this place. 

He might have hoped to be released when they realized there was nothing wrong with him, letting him out on ‘good, sane behavior’, but then that asshole Kubrick had to fuck it all up. He swore that whatever shit they were making him take was fucking with his head. And he was more certain now than ever that was the case. Since Bobby had started seeing him, the fog in his head was clearing, and the violent impulses had receded.

Maybe with Bobby’s help, he could finally get the hell out of here and back to living his life.

Maybe he could find Sam again. Actually talk to him this time, instead of just checking that he was alive and well at college.

The corner of his mouth turned up. Sam was so much older now, insanely tall, and yet he still had the same old girly, longish hair that Dean had always teased him for when they were younger. His face had lost the childish round cheeks and was now chiseled and lean, but Dean could still see his baby brother in the soulful eyes and the expressive mouth. 

He’d been watching Sam study in a coffee shop that day that everything had gone wrong. The windows were floor to ceiling and he could easily see in from outside from where he lounged in the shadow of a large oak tree, dark coat and hair blending in with the trunk he leaned against. He’d toyed with going in there, laying eyes upon his brother in person and seeing what sort of reaction he’d be met with. He wanted to know if Sam had thought about him nearly as much as he’d thought of Sam.

He’d wanted to hold Sammy’s face in his hands, to feel something solid between them, to reassure himself that they were both real. He’d wanted Sam to look into his eyes, and his lips to quirk up into a smile. He’d wanted...

Dean threw his arm up over his eyes, feeling them burn.

In the end, he’d been afraid. He didn’t want to go in there only to find that Sam hardly recognized or remembered him. He wondered what their mother might have been telling him all these years. That he was just like Dad? Crazy? Erratic? A bad influence?

A girl had walked up to Sam’s table then, smiling at him. Sam had looked up and Dean swore that for a moment, his eyes had drifted outside as if spotting him. He watched those brows draw together briefly, the way they used to when something was bothering him and his grey eyes would become ridiculously luminous and irresistible. He could never withstand that puppy dog look Sam was so good at.

He’d ducked around the tree as the girl recaptured Sam’s attention by sitting down across from him, his heart pounding in his chest.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Dean whispered aloud in the quiet confines of his luxurious cell. He’d asked himself that more times than he could count.

If only he’d just gone in there that day, things could have been different. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. And what was the point in tracking Sammy down just to ‘check in’ on him? He knew that wasn’t all he wanted. He didn’t want to be some unknown phantom, lurking around like some ghost that wanted to be a part of life but never could be again.

He rubbed at his face, then put his hands behind his head again, gaining control over his thoughts and reactions once more. The ceiling was cracked and painted a dingy white. It was the color of depression. Of loss. “God, I miss you,” he said quietly into the still air.

He hated the thought of Sam going through life, attending that fancy school, dating random girls, maybe one day marrying one, and never thinking of him again.  

He wondered if he still felt it had been worth it to stay with his dad when he’d been given the choice. 

He wouldn’t allow himself to think on it. His dad had needed him most. He needed protection against himself, a certain threat, versus Sammy who  _ might _ need protection against the things that went ‘bump’ in the night. It was the only decision he could have made at the time, wanting to keep their family intact. And yet... if he did allow himself to dwell upon it...

He was pretty sure he never would have let go of the small hand that had gripped his so tightly.

* * *

“Mr. Campbell?”

The sound of someone’s voice came through the fog, but it was all distorted. “Mr. Campbell?”

Sam’s eyes were closed but everything seemed too bright, and noises too loud. He tried to cover his eyes with his arm, but he seemed to have misplaced it.

Something very strong smelling was put under his nose and a firm, cold hand on his forehead kept him from moving away. He groaned.

“He’s coming out of it. Get some water.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered open and the world was a riot of light, white, and unfamiliar faces. “Where am I?” he rasped, barely able to speak.

“You’re in the hospital, Mr. Campbell. Try not to speak.”

He felt a blind flash of panic then, wondering if he had lost his arm and that that was why he couldn’t move it - but it was there, attached as always.

“What happened?” he asked, accepting the water. His throat felt like raw meat, like he hadn’t used it in ages. Speaking was inordinately difficult.

“There was an accident,” a man in a lab coat said shortly. “Please refrain from speaking. You need to conserve your strength.”

Sam ignored him. “What accident? I don’t remember anything.”

One of the nurses was whispering something to the nurse next to her. She looked concerned. She was shaking her head as if in disagreement with her coworker.

“It is probably for the best, son.”

“No,” he argued, his voice gaining strength though the urge to cough was starting to plague him. “I  _ need _ to know. What happened?”

“We aren’t entirely sure, but you were brought in 10 days ago by a man who claimed to be your father. He said there was an accident.”

“My father?” he whispered, his eyebrows drawing together in disbelief. “But it couldn’t be...”  _ I haven’t seen him in years. How would he even know where I was? _ “My mother - where is she?”

“We’re sorry, son. She didn’t make it.”

“Didn’t make it--?!” he started angrily and then fell into a fit of coughing. “What are you talking about?! What in the hell happened?”

His gaze spun about the room wildly, eyes touching every face. They were like dark strangers. Monsters. Nothing made sense. Nothing--

He saw images then. Confusing flashes. His mother’s face, smiling at him in the car. His current girlfriend laughing and taking his hand. He’d been introducing them that day. There was a park. Then there was screaming. Blood. His mother’s lips forming words. He saw his father’s face, briefly. Just a moment. Focused, closed off. Grim. Looking over his head at something. Were they connected? He didn’t know.

He realized his hands were shaking. No, not just his hands. His arms, his whole body. He--

“Oh, dammit, we’re losing him again!” someone shouted as the room grew dim.

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Title is from a song by Infected Mushroom. I thought it captured some of the mood. Plus, it’s just an awesome song. ^^ (Have a listen.)

 

**Infected Mushroom - “In Front of Me”**

Why can't I see what's in front of me? 

Why can't I see what's in front of me? 

I see the doors that I can't open

Adding locks from time to time

When it opens something blocks me

And I'm asking myself why

Did I take the step I wanted

Was it just a state of mind?

I feel sorry for myself

Every time I close my eyes.

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more. 

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more. 

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more. 

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more. 

Why can't I see what's in front of me? 

Why can't I see what's in front of me? 

What's behind the door I wonder

Must be brighter than my past

Will I feel a little different

When I take myself across

Was it really worth the turning?

Was it just a foolish task

I feel sorry for myself

when I open up my eyes...

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more. 

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more. 

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more. 

And I fall into a hole

And I can take no more... 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. End of the Road

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

 **A/N:** Historically, the term ‘ _Sanitarium_ ’ was used to describe a sort of health resort. This word has been in use long before the 20th century.

The term _‘Sanatorium’_ (also sometimes spelled ‘sanatarium’ or ‘sanitorium’) was used to describe a medical facility for the treatment of long-term illness (typically tuberculosis). In 1904 the word was created as a way to distinguish between the existing health facilities in which people could stay and recover their health with the benefit of fresh food, water, air, and rest, and the new hospitals. Instead of being derived from the Latin noun _sanitas_ , meaning health, the Latin verb root _sano_ was used, emphasizing the need for scientific healing or treatment. Thus the new word sanatorium was born.

When the cure for TB was discovered, many sanitoriums shut down, though some were converted to general hospitals or specialized hospitals (ie. AIDS, mental health, etc.).

In many cases, "Sanitarium" is considered the proper American spelling of the word.  "Sanatorium" is the British variant spelling. But many use the terms interchangeably to describe a psychiatric hospital or mental health facility.

I will be using the term _sanitarium_. (In part, because that is what is familiar to most. But also because I happen to be an oldschool-Metallica fan and their song “Welcome Home (Sanitarium)” makes use of the American spelling. lol)

* * *

Ch. 3: End of the Road

The mess hall, cafeteria, or whatever you wanted to call it, had the potential to be the most interesting or the most irritating place in the facility. Dean found that it often times had a direct correlation to who happened to be inside.

Just now, Dean was trying to mind his own business and had no interest in ‘mingling’ with the locals. It was still early, only about 7:45 a.m. and he’d slept like shit last night. The last thing he needed was this asshole Gordon sitting down across from him, an antagonistic smile on his goddamn irritating face.

“‘Morning, Winchester,” he greeted cryptically.

Dean grunted and ignored him in favor of his eggs and some coffee that someone had to have been hungover to make so poorly. Ah hell, it was better than nothing though. He usually drank it black but this stuff needed some extra TLC to be palatable. He poured some of the milk from his cereal into it, careful not to get any cornflakes in his mug. Yeah, he was too lazy to be bothered to get up for proper milk or creamer. Not to mention not being keen on leaving his food unsupervised, especially with Gordon here.

He was briefly amused that Kellogg’s cornflakes were served here, having been spawned by some genius in a mental hospital, and that people all over the place were eating the same damn thing _he_ was for breakfast before getting ready for work or school or whatever. All he was missing was the white picket fence. And freedom. And perhaps not having this self-important, goatee-sporting asshat staring him in the face, waiting for him to do something.

Dean took a big spoonful of cereal and shoveled it into his mouth, making a show out of chewing as he said, “‘Sup, Gordon.”

“You sure are taking things easy, Winchester,” the dark-skinned man said ominously.

Gordon was a bit torqued in the head. He delivered every line like it had hidden meaning oozing out of every orifice, and that his bug-eyed intense looks were supposed to make you understand which one he meant to convey.

Seriously, seriously annoying this early in the morning.

“Ya want some toast, man?” Dean asked, mouth full of eggs this time. He waved a piece in Gordon’s face, making the man lean back a touch. “No? Don’t mind if I do.” He took two huge bites, mouth now stuffed about to capacity. “MMm!” he said shaking his head as if this was the best damn meal of his life.

“Where’s all the salt, Winchester?” Gordon asked in a low, threatening voice.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. He made short work of his food and swallowed. “...the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“You _know_.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Dean piled the rest of his eggs on his second piece of toast, spread with jelly, and rolled it like a burrito. He took a huge bite. The nuisance in front of him didn’t budge. Gordon was being persistent today. Usually he gave up in disgust after witnessing a few minutes of gluttonous eating. _I’ll have to work out extra later,_ he thought distractedly. Working out gave him something to do at least. And if he ever got out of here, he wanted to get some action. The other reason he worked out is that he didn’t want to get soft. It paid to be prepared.

“You’re the one doing it.”

Dean sighed explosively. “Doing _what_ , Gordon? Trying to eat my goddamn breakfast? Guilty as charged.”

“The shakers go missing. Sometimes they turn up empty.” He leaned forward menacingly, dark eyes fixed. “I think,” he said quietly, a serial killer look on his face, “ _you’re_ the one doing it.”

“Really,” Dean said, finishing off his ‘burrito’. “That’s funny,” he said with his mouth full, raising his brows. “Because I have seen no shortage of salt in these parts.” He picked up the salt shaker that was sitting on the table in front of him and shook some onto his last bit of food before popping it into his mouth. “Sugar, maybe,” he amended with a shrug. There was severely limited mingling of the sexes here. Mostly the men and women were kept separate and lived on opposite ends of the facility.

He leaned back and swiped the salt shaker off the table behind him. It was full. “Oh, and look here,” he said, putting it down next to the other salt shaker, “more salt.”

Dean put his arms on the table and leaned forward aggressively with a hard gaze. “You got a problem with me? Why don’t you just come out with it and quit _fucking around_?” His voice had been steadily growing louder. Other people were starting to watch the exchange, whispering and poking at each other.

Gordon noted the extra attention and decided to call it a draw. “We’ll talk again later,” he promised, getting up and swinging his leg over the bench seat. He kept his eyes on Dean with a glare the entire time, before spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

“ _Anyone_ **_else_ ** _want some fucking salt?_ ” Dean called out loudly as he stood. Some of the diners shook their heads rapidly before turning around, and others just quickly found themselves occupied with anything other than getting caught meeting Dean’s eyes. “Christ,” he muttered, then pocketed the extra salt shaker from his table.

* * *

Dean went back to his room and passed most of the day poring through the book he’d gotten from the p-doc. He was a little irritated with himself for mentioning his family at all during his session, but he’d been distracted and he felt more or less at ease around the new shrink.

It was bad enough that Bobby knew some of the subject matter that caught his eye, but that couldn’t be helped. He didn’t have access to this kind of stuff anywhere else. He’d scoured the patient library. Nothing. He’d even caved and read some of the historical romance novels if they promised even a mention of the paranormal. (They were awful, by the way.) So when he saw the contents of Bobby’s shelves, he couldn’t help himself.

Sure, he’d compromised himself somewhat with his need to borrow these books and pore over them, but as long as he was careful and gave nothing else away, it could remain ‘just an interest’.

Man, he really did not like bringing his family into this though. The less known about them, the better.

“Heya, Winchester,” his roommate greeted as he walked in.

Dean nodded at him and kept reading. He was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall with the book balanced on his thighs.

“A little light reading?” Ed Zeddmore asked, pushing his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture and snickering at his own joke.

Dean raised his eyes over the edge of the humongous book, giving the basement-pale, curly-haired guy a _‘you’ve got to be kidding me’_  look. “Hey man, kinda busy here,” he said, going back to the book rather pointedly. Solitary was worse, he reminded himself. He may have a bugfuck potato-head for a roommate, but at least he had more liberties.

“What’s it about?” Ed asked after a long pause.

“It’s about a serial killer who only goes insane after playing the game 20 Questions.”

Ed furrowed his brow. “Seems to be a pretty long book for that.”

Dean felt like banging his head into the wall. Being civil could be such hard work. “Yeah, well apparently people didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. So he had quite a career.”

“What’s his name?”

“I think it might be _Dean_.”

Ed sniggered and pushed his glasses back into place. “That’s funny, because your name is--” He broke off, noticing the _‘no shit, Sherlock’_ look Dean was giving him. “...Oh. Right. I get it.” He laughed nervously. “I uh... forgot something in the library.” He scrambled to leave the room, but poked his head back in long enough to say, “Catcha on the flip side.”

Dean shook his head and tried to go back to reading. It was an effort.

* * *

A few hours later, Dean was quite contentedly catching some shut-eye when a sound quite like the buzzing of a fly graced his ear.

“Psst! Dean!”

Dean was steadily coming to hate his roommate. He could pick out that annoying voice anywhere. He did not care for this new skill. He cracked an eye open, still tired from his workout but nice and relaxed from the hot shower he’d taken afterwords, and realized he’d fallen asleep with ‘The Tome’ over his face. It was damn heavy. “What?” he asked, moving it aside and rubbing his eyes.

Judging by the quality of light in the room, it was late afternoon.

His stomach growled and he absently rubbed at it, changing his assessment to be in the arena of 4 p.m.

“Did you hear? There’s a live one. Fresh meat?”

Dean gave the rotund teenager an unimpressed look. Ed had an annoying habit of trying to sensationalize everything. He also seemed to maintain a state of perpetual excitement. “A new resident?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Nope. Didn’t hear and don’t care.”

Ed looked disappointed. “Really? But he’s different. He’s like... catatonic or something. They say he’s been asleep for like a week.”

“Wouldn’t that be a coma?” Dean said disinterestedly as he wondered how excruciating the wait till dinner was likely to be.

Ed shrugged. “If it was, they wouldn’t be bringing him in. His name’s Campbell.”

Dean frowned as the name jarred him. _Campbell... Where have I heard that before?_

“So, you wanna see him?” Ed asked restlessly. “This might be the only chance, as they’re wheeling him in. Once he’s in the room, he won’t be coming out again unless he wakes up.”

Dean was starting to feel restless as well. “Yeah, sure.” He had time to kill before he could eat, and this guy’s name was bugging him.

He followed Ed out of the room, slightly annoyed that he wasn’t any taller than the curly-haired teenager. He looked around and didn’t see any of the orderlies tailing him. It seemed they didn’t have the resources to be on him 24-7, but they liked to follow him around and escorted him to and fro on specific occasions, such as visiting the shrink for his weekly sessions. He guessed they were less concerned with patient safety than they were with staff safety.

Regardless, they’d been giving him a longer leash since he’d been behaving himself. But that leash had gotten a lot longer since he’d been in Dr. Singer’s care. Paulo usually did the escorting, but Dean suspected it was because they sort of got along.

Poor sap, trying to make friends with a resident.

Solitary had sucked. That’s where they stuck him when he first got here. That’s also where he heard about the tunnels. Originally they were a sort of corridor between buildings, through which patients were moved about, but mostly everything was done topside these days. One of the more easily aggravated ‘guards’ (he was technically an orderly) had let slip quite a lot of information in-between his rather creative threats for Dean to shut his pie hole. Dean did his god’s honest best to piss the guy off, and had learned an awful lot in the process.

Eventually he had to let up though. They guy was a source of info and entertainment, but being stuck in a box with bars over the windows was starting to get to him.

One of these days, he was going to find a way to get down there and check things out. According to Dillan-the-pissed-off-orderly, there were not just corridors, but entire rooms underground. There were also strange ass stories of what they might have been used for and who might have died down there.

“Quick,” Ed was saying, “over here.”

Ed was waving him in the opposite direction of the main entrance. “What for? Don’t they usually bring the new ones in through the front?”

“Yeah, but they have it blocked off.” He indicated  an amassing force of men in white coats and adjusted his glasses. “We won’t get close. We’ll have a better view from up there.” He pointed to the second floor, just at the top of the split staircase that framed the high-ceilinged entryway.

“So, the back stairs then?” Dean anticipated.

Ed looked like he’d lost some of the wind in his sails. “Yeah, how’d you guess?”

Dean frowned at him. “Dude, it’s pretty obvious that’s the only way they wouldn’t see you. If we go up the back stairs, we can get pretty close and then belly crawl the rest of the way. It’d be much harder for them to notice us if we’re less than a foot tall versus running up the stairs _right in front of them_.”

“You’re pretty smart, Dean.” Ed sounded like he was only just figuring this out. Dean wanted to climb to the top of the stairs and pitch him over the railing. Dumb fuck.

“Right then, let’s go,” he said instead. They were wasting time and he wanted to check out this Campbell character. He slow ran down the hall, keeping an eye out for anyone that might get in his way, residents or staff. Ed followed him, much less smooth about the entire affair, and slow to duck corners when suspicious persons were sighted.

They were nearly busted when Dillan passed by from the direction of the kitchens. Dillan, hard assed Irishman that he was, would have detained them on principle. He loved to find Dean getting himself into trouble. Ed was slow on the uptake and he caught Dillan’s eye.

“Hey - Zeddmore,” the dangerous looking man with the crew-cut said. “What are you doing out over here?”

“N-Nothing,” Ed stammered, just a few feet from where Dean was out of view. “W-We were just--”

“We?”

Dean could just make both of them out without giving himself away. Mostly it was Dillan in his line of sight. The Irishman looked suspicious as hell.

Ed laughed nervously and gestured vaguely to the air beside him as if he thought there was a ‘person’ there. “Yeah. We. Were just going to...”

“Going to gawk at the new guy?” Dillan finished, giving him a look that said he hated dealing with crazy folk whose idea of a good time was to go peek at other crazy folk.

“No,” Ed drew out the word. “No, no, most definitely **not** that.”

“Yeah, whatever, Zeddmore.” Dillan ruffled a hand over his shorn hair with a bored expression. “Get going.” He made a shooing motion. “And don’t get caught doing anything you’re not supposed to be doing.”

“That was inspired,” Dean said when the coast was clear and they’d resumed their trek.

Ed looked proud. “You think so?”

“Lucky for you he doesn’t much care what kind of crazy anyone is, _and_ you seemed to catch him in a good mood. He would have dragged me off by the ear.”

“Maybe he let me go because I look harmless.”

“You _are_ harmless.” Unless you counted the mental anguish Ed could inspire, just by talking, as a sort of violence.

“Are you sure?” Ed said fretfully. “How would you know?”

“I have a sixth sense about that kind of thing.”

“Really?” Ed perked up. “I didn’t know you were psychic, Dean!” he said in an excited whisper.

Dean regretted the number of steps it took to get the to the second floor.

Unlike Ed, Dean was able to belly crawl at a quick pace and was able to reach the end of the landing just as the gurney was wheeled in. A body, covered up to the shoulders with a blanket was strapped upon it. A ring of orderlies kept residents from entering by guarding the doorways that did not have doors. Some were threatening more boisterous residents with revocation of certain privileges. This seemed to be effective.

Dean got as close to the edge as he dared, straining to get a look at the new guy. It was still too far to see clearly. He’d have to wait until they wheeled him by, right beneath his current location. He’d picked this side for a reason. There hadn’t been any patients visible on this end which meant they’d taken pains to clear everyone out and keep it cleared out.

 _All right, all right,_ he thought as the procession got near to halfway between him and the main door. New guy was being wheeled through feet first, which would give him a better view of his face. _C’mon, Campbell, let’s see what you’re about._

Ed huffed as he crawled up next to Dean. “Did I miss anything?” he said too loudly.

“Shh!” Dean whispered. “Not yet.” He turned his attention back to the ground floor, and sucked in a breath. He blinked rapidly as he looked on the patient’s familiar face, and the long brunet bangs that waved back from it.

 _Campbell._ Now it all made sense, the way that name hit him like buckshot. It was his mother’s maiden name, and on that bed was none other than his brother!

“Ed,” he said hoarsely. “What did you say the guy’s first name was?”

“I didn’t, but his name is Sam. Sam Campbell.”

“ _Shit,_ ” he cursed, scrambling up from his post, not caring if anyone saw him.

“Dean?” Ed said in a stage whisper. “Where are you going?”

Dean ignored him, making for the back stairs as panic battered at the inside of his head. Sam was catatonic? What in the hell had happened? What was he doing in here of all places? Why wasn’t he in California, where he’d been going to school? Michigan wasn’t exactly a stone’s throw away. It didn’t make any sense!

He burst into the hallway from the stairs, skidding slightly on the floor, and ran towards the atrium. It wasn’t the best of ideas, but he knew he wouldn’t be getting through any of the doors they’d locked to close off the corridor they were taking Sam through. He reached the crowd flocking the open door, elbowing past the other residents while he evaluated the weakest link in the chain of three orderlies keeping them at bay. He slammed between the two on the left, clipping the one on the end which gave him an opening to dodge the center guy’s grasping arm.

His mind was racing, trying to make sense of Sam on that gurney. It faltered on the thought of Sam never opening his eyes again. Interspersed with that was images of the last time he’d seen his brother, out near Sanford Uni. Everything had been okay. He’d been in one piece, had looked good, healthy, mentally sound. Granted, that had been a few years ago. _What happened? What happened to you?_

He could just make out the procession in the hall ahead of him when a vise clamped around his neck. “All right, Winchester,” Dillan said in his ear as he put Dean into a choke-hold. “That’s far enough.”

“You don’t understand,” Dean ground out, trying to break the Irishman’s solid grip which also happened to be a deterrent to breathing. “That’s my brother in there.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Queen of France, Winchester,” the orderly said with an incredulous laugh, voice slightly strained with the effort of keeping him in check. “You are _not_ going in there.”

“Please,” Dean said as his vision started to go splotchy. “I have to--”

Dean’s body went limp as he blacked out and Dillan hoisted it over his shoulder. Damn, but Winchester weighed more than he looked. His compact frame was like solid muscle.

“Hey, Dillan,” one of his fellow workers said from where they were actively herding people down the hall. “What did you do, finally lose your cool and choke Winchester out? Bet you’ve been waiting a damn long time to do that.”

The Irishman shook his head. “I dunno, it was weird. I’ve never seen him act like that. He’s been playing his cards real close to his chest for a while now. Seemed like he wanted to gnaw my arm off.”

“You’ll wanna go report that to his p-doc. Who’s got him? Singer?”

“Yeah, I think so. Hey, Richardson, you wanna help me out here? Dude’s fuckin’ heavy.”

“Naw, I’m good,” the dark-haired orderly answered, “fun as that looks. Want me to hold any doors open for ya?”

“Bite me,” Dillan said, readjusting his load with a glare.

He was probably going to get into trouble with the way he’d handled this. But with Winchester’s record, he couldn’t exactly let him run loose. Especially not when he was acting all weird. Brother indeed. He couldn’t have even gotten a clear shot to look at the new guy’s face. Besides, they didn’t even have the same last name.

* * *

TBC

 **A/N:** Chapter title is from the song “End of the Road” by Infected Mushroom. (Can you sense a theme here? Lol. It’s very likely I’ll be naming all the chapters with this convention, but I am picking the songs according to mood or mood/lyric content to fit with the story.)

 


	4. Saeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, pretty much all chapter titles are Infected Mushroom songs. Rare exceptions. This music was totally the soundtrack to this fic when I wrote it. (I think originally I started it in 2011.)

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 4: Saeed

Dean winced against the pounding of his head. Something felt off, but he couldn’t find it in him to even open his eyes. His brain felt like it had been on the wrong end of a meat grinder.

He remembered Dillan putting him in a choke hold... He’d been running past him to...

**_Sam._ **

Dean’s eyes flew open and he jerked upright. Or, tried to. He seemed to be in the infirmary, restrained upon the bed he was lying in. Frustration seared through him.  _ Now is not the time for this shit!  _ He strained at the straps, trying to find some give so he could work his way out. 

“Nice to see you awake, Winchester.”

Dean growled in the back of his throat.

One of the assistant psychiatrists was looking down at him blandly. He wasn’t particularly tall, short, skinny or fat. He wasn’t particularly anything, except his eye sometimes carried an odd gleam of what looked like envy. The brunet man would have looked young and even wholesome if it weren’t for the strangely expansive full beard he wore which looked so out of place on him. It was Dr. Kubrick’s crony, the one who’d been overseeing his ‘medication’ while Kubrick oversaw his case remotely. This guy, he was a real dick, just like Kubrick.

“As you can see, we found it might be prudent to restrain you, especially given your track record,” Dr. Walter’s voice was softly chiding. His eyes said he thought this was a riot. “We were afraid you might hurt others. We were afraid you would hurt yourself.” He smiled apologetically. “We just want what’s in  _ your  _ best interests.”

_ MY best interests? _

“What’s my cocktail this time, Doc?” Dean sneered with an answering smile that was equally insincere. He was still pulling at his bonds, the urge to smash Walter’s face in becoming overwhelming. He didn’t feel right.

“Oh, I think you’ll find it already chugging away in your system, making you right again.”

Dean gritted his teeth, feeling a small surge of panic as his hostility spiked. “Where’s Dr. Singer?” Were they going to work him over like last time? Would they get their hands back on him, taking him out of Bobby’s care? He’d just been starting to feel normal again!

“Dr. Singer is off for the next few days. He left the facility today at 3:30 p.m.” The bearded assistant doctor informed him pleasantly. “Don’t worry; we’ll be taking good care of you.”

“I don’t need taken care of,” Dean bit out. “I’m fine. And I have a right to know what medications you’re giving me.”

Walter came over and sat down on the bed. His presence there was infuriating. Dean could hardly stand it, or tolerate the feeling of the bed dipping beneath the man’s weight. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” the man said, shaking his head bemusedly. “You, of course, know about every single medication noted in your file.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “And what about those that you aren’t reporting?”

Walter laughed. “What are you trying to imply there?”

“Exactly what you think.”

“Careful, Winchester.” Walter’s eyes held a subtle glitter above his professional smile. “You can’t prove anything, not with your word against ours. You’ll just wind up looking more paranoid and delusional than you already are.” 

“I’ll kill you if I ever get the chance,” Dean said darkly.

“Do you mind if I put that in your file?” Dr. Walter asked amiably, poising a pen above the small notebook he carried. “I think it would be a nice addition, a real winner for placing you back in solitary. You were happy there, I wager?”

“Yeah, it was fucking great.”

Walter snapped his notebook shut, aiming a wide smile his way. “What a life. Helping people attain their full potential. There’s nothing else like it.” He shook his head ruefully. “Now then.” He produced a small syringe from the pocket of his white jacket. Removing the cap, he held it up and then tapped it to make any air bubbles surface the depressed the plunger enough to force some of the liquid from the needle’s metal tip. “I’ll just leave you with a parting gift and let you get some rest.”

* * *

“Dean?” a voice faded in from nowhere. “Dean?” It was faint, like it was coming in through a layer of cotton balls.

He couldn’t place it, but his body was already reacting, breaking out into a cold sweat as if the voice was coming from beyond the grave. And here he was, strapped to a bed and drugged half out of his mind. Helplessness echoed the thought and made him absolutely furious.

“Dean.”

He felt something brush his face. Something cold, clammy. His muscles jerked, and he knew his arms and legs were still securely strapped down.  _ Jesus.  _ He was trapped. His fists clenched and re-clenched uselessly.

“Dean, are you in there?”

Suddenly, bright light was shining into his naked eye, the lids being held open. “G...Get away...from me,” he ground out, throat working reflexively.

“Dean, it’s Dr. Singer. Can you understand me?”

“Bo..bby?” he wasn’t sure if he should believe it. Though it did sort of sound like him.

He heard the doctor sigh in response. “Or ‘Robert’,” he corrected. “But I guess I’ll let it go this time.”

Dean was sure then, that this was Bobby, all right. He’d always gotten a kick out of the doctor’s lack of enthusiasm over his nickname. Bobby was a good sport about it, though.

“Dean, can you open your eyes?”

“I dunno, they don’t seem to be thrilled at the prospect.”

“All right then. Can you tell me what happened?” 

“I...” Dean paused. “I don’t seem to remember at the moment.” He wasn’t sure what he should say. Surely Bobby could see there was something wrong with him, but would he assume that this was a sort of relapse?  _ Would he believe it if I told him about Walter?  _ Or did Walter have a point? Would he be written off as paranoid and delusional? 

Goddamn, he felt tired. 

“Dean, I’m going to let you sleep,” Bobby’s voice faded in and out. “I’ll be back later to check on you.”

* * *

When Dean woke up again, he felt a bit better. He also found that he could sit up, so he did so right away. It made his head swim violently.

“Hey, take it easy, tiger.”

Firm hands were pushing him back down onto the bed. They belonged to his favorite goon, Paulo. He groaned as his stomach suddenly began cramping up with hunger. “C’mon, let me up, man, I got stuff to do.”

“Like what, Winchester? Can’t be to take a piss, they got you all hooked up.” The solidly built orderly indicated the IVs in his arm and Dean realized they must have him cathed. He tried to move the blankets aside to double check but the full body straps had been swapped for wrist restraints. He could sit up all right, but he wasn’t going anywhere. His legs were as immobile as before.

Paulo moved the blanket aside slightly so Dean could see the edge of the catheter bag strapped to his leg.

_ Christ. _ Caths really bugged the shit out of him. Not to mention, it seemed overkill for being in here for a few hours. “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are, being on liquids for days. But they’ll just send a tray down now that you’re with it.” Paulo picked up his radio and made the call.

_ Days? _ Dean frowned. “What do you mean ‘days’? I’ve only been here a few hours.”

“Nope. Dr. Singer was already gone when they brought you in and you were still out of it when he came back. And I happen to know that he was not in the entire weekend.”

“So, it’s Monday?” Dean asked, trying to get his bearings.

Paulo shook his head. “Tuesday. Doc came to see you Monday but said you needed to sleep it off.”

“Shit.”

“No kidding. What’d you do this time?”

_ Just tried to see what the hell brought my brother in here like that, strapped to a cart like he was a corpse.  _ Dean suddenly did not feel like talking. At least not to anyone but Bobby. This was personal. “Where’s Singer?” 

Thinking about Sam was making him restless. Worse than restless. Especially since several days had slipped past since he’d seen Sam’s face, and had tried to get to him. He needed to make sure Sammy was ok.  _ What if he’s woken up while I was stuck in here?  _ Fear overrode some of his anxiety at their first meeting in over 10 years. He was half out of his mind with worry and being prevented from acting according to his instincts was making him hostile. Maybe Bobby could get him unlooped and he could try again to get in to see Sam. But there was absolutely nothing he could do from this bed.

“He’ll be back this afternoon.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

“Good afternoon, Dean,” Dr. Singer greeted him as he came in the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Like Miss America. Can you get me the hell out of here already? It’s driving me nuts and I can’t even get a proper fucking meal. If they hand me one more fucking fruit cup, I swear to god--”

“Something’s bothering you.” Bobby pulled up a chair, checked his vitals and shone the light into his eyes again. “I haven’t seen you like this before.” 

“I just want out,” he said shortly.

Dean tried to put Sammy from his mind, but the more he tried, the more he thought about it, and the angrier he was that he was being kept from him. He was pissed at being kept here, pissed at Dillan, pissed at med-happy Walker, and he guessed just pissed off in general. It was all accompanied by a fluffy haziness that felt like dementia. 

If he told Bobby about Sam, would it help or make things worse? Agitation fizzled through his protesting body. He couldn’t stand it.

“What’s wrong, Dean? Be honest.”

Dean grit his teeth. “It’s...” It really went against his instincts to say anything at all, but the words were starting to slip out. “It’s Sammy. He’s... I don’t know what happened, but he’s my brother and I saw him come in.” He shook his head. “What the hell did they put me on? I feel like shit.” 

“Anti-depressants, and anti-psychotics.”

“What the hell for?” He wanted to shout. “I’m human, shouldn’t I be allowed to react to things? Are  _ you _ going to medicate my brains out if I show a flicker of anything you don’t think you like?” Was his trust in Bobby unfounded? Did he agree with what they’d done?

“Dean, I want to level with you here,” Dr. Singer said frankly. “I have been re-evaluating your medications and weaning you off of the ones I feel were causing your aggression to get the better of you, and with good results. But erratic behavior is always cause for alarm, especially in cases like yours. We don’t want any accidents. Even at your best, you have poor impulse control--”

“So does 80% of the population,” he retorted.

Dr. Singer said nothing for a moment. “Are you finished? May I continue?”

“Only if you can do something about these meds that are making the inside of my head feel like strawberry shortcake land. I feel like I’m stuck in the mind of a 5 year old girl. It’s creeping me out.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll do the minimum preventative drug therapy I am allowed. In return, I need you to be on your best behaviour.”

“Seems like a rotten deal for me.”

“Well, I suppose it might look that way, but I know something you don’t know.”

Dean looked suspicious. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“If you show some sort of consistent stability, I think it’s possible they’ll let you visit Sam.”

“What?” Dean was all alert and tense. “Why? Why would they do that?”

“Well, in cases of catatonia, things or people that are familiar can sometimes bring sufferers out of it. You’re family. We did a blood test to verify you are related, though this information has not been released to the entire staff. They weren’t sure of anything at first, only that your brother had a note on him when he was brought in. The only thing on it was your first name, the name of this facility and the state.” He watched Dean for a reaction. “So, what do you say?”

Dean dropped his head back on the pillow, utterly floored. “Ok, you have a deal.”

“Oh, but there is one other thing.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly, face not betraying any emotion he might have been feeling. He gave the doctor an expectant, deadpan look, lips twisting briefly. “And that would be?”

“He can’t be told anything about his accident. At least not yet. His memory, if he wakes up, is bound to be hazy for a while. It has been suggested that you pretend you know nothing, at least for a time, so he isn’t shocked back into it. The longer he spends conscious and responsive, the slimmer the chance is that he will lapse back into a catatonic state.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“You could pretend you aren’t related, so that you won’t be seen as a source of information.”

“Uh, yeah. You think he’ll fall for that?”

“I don’t know. How important is it to you that he remains awake, if he wakes up at all?”

Dean glared at him. “What do you mean ‘if’? Of course he’s gonna wake up.”

“Of course,” Dr. Singer said placatingly.

* * *

_ One and a half weeks later... _

It was a lazy afternoon and several of the residents were playing a friendly game of cards with some severely high stakes.

“Hey, Dean,” one of the older residents said, a frown twitching on his face. “Anybody ever tell you that you eat a lot?”

“Mn? Mrelly?” Dean was playing with his cards in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He laid the sandwich down on his knee while he grabbed a handful of Cheetos from the bag he’d just won from the guy. He was in good spirits, this being his 5th winning hand in a row.

“Yeah,” a bulky guy with a shaved head said hostilely. “And you cheat.” This garnered nods from the rest of the group.

“Ladies,” Dean laughed. “I do  _ not _ cheat.”

“I miss women,” a guy that had somehow gotten dubbed ‘Pokey’ said glumly. “I don’t know why I signed myself into this place.”

“Because,” said a 20-something biker that went by the name Garnet, “in addition to your shit memory, you were a hopeless klepto-stalker.” He had a serious expression and a long black ponytail that was bound with many hair ties, evenly spaced all the way down, and looked like he might be part Native American. Dean wasn’t quite sure on why he was in here unless he was severely OCD or something.

“I did not steal stuff!” Pokey claimed indignantly.

“Yes, you did,” argued Garnet without any inflection in his voice. “And you still do. I want my dreamcatcher back.”

“Well, seeing as I don’t  _ have _ your dream whatsit feathery thing--”

“It was a gift from my late grandmother. Your turn, Dean.”

Dean played a card and dug into the bag of Cheetos. Card games could sometimes be quite entertaining, even without the winning. He usually kept his mouth shut and enjoyed the show.

“Well,” Pokey said sullenly, “my point was, I miss getting laid.”

“Don’t see that changing just by you gettin’ outta here, son,” Garth, the older guy with a cloud of ginger colored Einstein-like hair, commented. 

Pokey played his card with a monumental frown on his face. “Would it kill them to let us get a little action?”

“You know,” Jared drawled, “you could always just bat for the other team. Prolly some guys here that are hard up enough for it.” Jared was a mean-looking weight-lifter with a shaved head. He could pretty much say whatever the hell he wanted and no one had the balls to challenge him on it. He was also about the last guy in the world that would be interested in other dudes. Dean suspected that underneath that burly exterior, he had quite a sense of humor.

Pokey looked horrified. “The hell you say to me?”

Jared played a card. “Just sayin’. If you’re gonna waste time bitching about something you can’t change, I’m more than happy to point out a solution. ‘Course, it don’t matter to me if you’d rather wear out your right hand.”

Pokey turned 4 shades of red.

“Well,  **I** mind,” Garnet said, “seeing as I have to share a room with him.”

“Maybe he’s in denial,” Garth added with a twitter of a laugh. “Better watch your ass, Garnet. Since he’s already started taking your shit, maybe you’re next.”

“Yeah, right, Pokey’s a bitch,” Garnet mused, regarding his cards and planning his next move. “No way he’d get the jump on someone. Besides, if he even tried, I’d break both his hands.”

“Pretty rough stuff,” Jared said to Pokey. “What would you do without your girlfriend or your backup girlfriend?”

“Guess he’d have to hope someone in here was desperate enough to do his sorry ass,” Dean said, adding to the smaller man’s horror. “Read ‘em an’ weep, boys,” he said as he won the game.  _ Score one more for team Winchester, _ he thought with a smirk.

“God dammit,” Jared cursed. He glared at Dean as he dug into his back pocket and then slapped a small box into the spikey-haired man’s hand. “Motherfucker, I should crush your spine. That was my last pack of smokes.”

“Want to come outside and watch me smoke one later?” Dean asked with a charming lift of his brows.

“Ass,” Jared muttered. “I don’t know why I even play with you.”

Dean smiled as he got up and stretched. “Beats the hell out of me. Unless it’s because I’m one of the few assholes who actually use the gym and can spot you.”

Jared nodded with a so-help-me-god expression upon his face.

Dean grabbed his winnings off of the table, piling them into his arms. Snacks, smokes, a shirt or two, some cash, hair gel, and a novel by Nelson DeMille that Garth had only gotten to read the first half of. It was a good lot.

“Off already?” Garnet asked.

“Yeah. Stuff to do.”

“I hear you’ve been visiting someone,” Pokey said, piping up now that he had a chance to put someone else in the hot seat. “One of the patients here.”

“You don’t say,” Dean said as if it was a revelation. “You find out who it is, be sure to let me know.”

Pokey deflated a little in his confusion.

“There’s a rumor you’re in to see that sleep-case Campbell,” Garth said.

“Well hey, it’s a good cover, then,” Dean said glibly. “They’ll never miss me as I’m pleasing the ladies in the east wing.” He wasn’t ready to say anything about Sam. Not yet. Maybe after he woke up, it would be clearer how he could handle things. Should he let anyone know they were related? That would explain the time he was spending with Sam, but... he had a few hostiles that might take out their aggression on his brother to spite him, and he didn’t want that.

“Why would they let you in there?” Pokey asked.

“In where?” Jared said.

“In either place,” Pokey insisted. “But I meant Campbell’s room.”

“Why? You interested?” Jared ribbed him. “I heard he’s pretty, for a guy.” As Pokey spluttered, the weight-lifter looked up at Dean. “What do  _ you _ think, Winchester?”

Dean shrugged. “Sorry. Not my type.”

The bickering continued even after he left and he was glad to be out of there. Their joking was all in good fun, but they were getting a little too close to the truth. 

He stopped by his room, grateful that he no longer had to share it with Ed, to drop off his winnings. Since his supposed ‘psychotic break’ the day Sam was brought in, he’d had to endure the drastic change in the medications he was being forced to take, but the plus side to it was that he now had a room to himself. He guessed staffers were worried he might kill Ed in his sleep. Which anyone might have wanted to do even on a good, sane day.

He dumped the stuff onto his mattress and then got on his knees to check under the bed. The line was mostly intact. He adjusted it a little then nodded and got to his feet. Dusting his hands off, he looked around the room. He’d go to see Sam in a few minutes, but first, he needed to do a couple things. He’d go wash up, brush his teeth and all that jazz, then swing by the cafeteria to see if he could make some more salt shakers go mysteriously missing. He needed at least one more aside from the one in his jacket.

There wasn’t a lot of action at this facility, but you couldn’t be too careful. Besides, he had heard a few ghost stories.

* * *

Dean used the key they’d given him to enter Sam’s room. They monitored the hall pretty frequently, checking this room at least every 30 minutes. He wasn’t sure when the last pass was, so he would have to work quickly. He dropped to his knees and crawled partway under the bed, reaching into his jacket for one of the salt shakers. The rubber stopper in the bottom came out pretty easily, and he continued the line he’d begun drawing 2 days ago, tracing the perimeter of the bed, just far enough in that no one should notice it unless they stooped down.

When the salt shaker was empty, he plugged it and put it into his jacket, grabbing out the other one and repeating the process. 

As he thought, it took the full 2 salt shakers to finish the line. That left him with one spare for emergencies, the one he carried on him at all times. Couldn’t be too careful. The last thing he needed was a spiritual intervention. Same went for Sammy. Only he was in a compromised state, so he was much more at risk. 

Dean came out from under the bed, feeling a lot better at finally being able to complete the protective ring of salt. He’d like if he could get a hold of some chalk, but he hadn’t yet located anyone that had any. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at his brother. “You’re a regular sleeping beauty, you know that?” he said to Sam. “The guys are all talking about you and you haven’t even met anyone yet. Guess you make quite an impression.”

Sam was still, and not even a muscle twitched in response. His face was like a smooth mask. Untouchable. Dean reached out to poke it. “Bitch,” he said softly, missing the comeback that would have been sure to follow if Sam had been awake to hear him. 

Little Sammy had been so upset the first time he’d called him that, turning red and thrusting out that bottom lip so far you could hang something on it. It was adorable.  _ ‘I am not a bitch,’  _ he’d informed his older brother with a mighty glare.  _ ‘You... jerk.’  _ Their mom had flipped when she found out, catching them in the middle of that kind of exchange on more than one occasion. Which was hilarious. After a time, the bitch/jerk thing had become a sort of in-joke for them.

Dean sighed and got to his feet, the silence getting to him more than usual this time. 

_ I’ll come back tomorrow, early, _ he thought as he got up and let himself out, feeling bad about having such an abbreviated visit. ”’Night, Sammy.” He turned off the light and let himself out.

He didn’t see Sam’s lips move, or hear the faint word, hardly louder than a breath as his brother unconsciously uttered, “ Jerk .”

* * *

Dean tossed and turned that night in his room. Sleep was just damn elusive at times. On nights like these, he would have loved to go outside, wander around the expansive grove of oak trees that this place was named for. Or, at the least, get out of this room and stretch his legs in the halls. But that wasn’t possible. They were locked up nice and tight in their rooms at lights out. Not a good system to be on if you were a night owl, which Dean was.

It was eating away at him, he’d just realized tonight, that he was starting to wonder if Sam was ever going to wake up. He’d had some half-deluded notion that after a day or two, Sam would pop out of it like a daisy and they could have the full on awkward reunion they were owed.

Dean rubbed his hands over his face. What was he going to tell Sam after that, about Mom, or his girlfriend? Nobody was really sure what had even happened. All they know is that the two were on the unwitting end of a bloodbath, and that Sam was brought in, in pretty rough shape himself, by a man claiming to be his father.

According to Dr. Singer, after Sam’s condition stabilized, the physicians at the general hospital realized he was showing signs of ‘ _ comatoid catatonia’. _ Dean had committed the words to memory, but it was just bunch of mumbo jumbo to him. Apparently it was a comatose state that didn’t have a medical cause and could have been brought on by an emotional shock to his system. Like a deadly level of stress that made parts of a person just shut off.

They’d had no way to contact the man who’d brought Sam in, and the police apparently had no luck locating John Winchester, whom they’d found, with some digging, to be his father. All that left was the note. Dean guessed that they might as well bring Sam where his surviving family was being kept. Probably why they did the blood test, to see who ‘Dean’ was supposed to be.

Their mom’s death came as a shock... but he wasn’t all that broken up about it. Sometimes he’d missed her over the years. But he’d never forget her looking him in the eye, telling him he was just like his father, and walking out on them. Are you supposed to forgive something like that? He wasn’t sure, but forgiveness was going to be a long time in coming. Still, he hadn’t hated his mom. Maybe resented her a little, but he certainly hadn’t wanted to see her dead. 

But Sam was different. He’d lived with her since he was 10. How hard must that have been for him? And his girlfriend, too... That had to have been rough.

Dean rolled over and faced the wall. He wondered absently if Sammy was more upset over mom or his girlfriend. Was it the same girl he’d seen in that cafe a few years back? Could it have been serious?

The thought unsettled him. He chose not to dwell upon it.

Instead, he considered the circumstances of the deaths. Had something attacked them in the park that day? Was that why Dad had been there? It was possible he’d been hunting something and followed it there. Or was it a fluke and just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Like finding yourself on the wrong end of a crazy bastard’s knife? Maybe it was just some psycho serial killer deal.

“Mn,” he groaned aloud, brow furrowing as he found his mind drifting back to the girlfriend. He needed a distraction. He obviously wasn’t going to be sleeping anytime soon. 

He rolled over and got up, going to the small, bolted down dresser that held his clothes and some odds and ends. Rifling through one of the drawers, he pulled out a flashlight he’d won in a game of poker. He put the penlight in his teeth and grabbed Bobby’s big ass book off the top of the dresser. He could at least read while he waited for dawn.

He put it on the bed, flopping onto his stomach and training the flashlight upon it. He was on a page that was discussing what modern day medicine had dubbed “Rip Van Winkle Syndrome,” where the afflicted could fall asleep for days, months, even years. It was attributed here to tree spirits who sapped the life force from someone. Even so, the affect was the same. One might awaken to find everything in their life had changed. Spouses, friends, or family might be dead or had moved on. He flipped past the rest of it, not wanting to dwell on that sort of thing. Sam was going to wake up. He  _ would _ . 

He skipped to another section, trying to take in what it was saying. After a few minutes, the words began to swim before his eyes.

“Wake up, damn, you,” he said into the empty room. He covered his eyes with his hand. “Just wake the hell up already. Sam.”

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title from: 

 

**Infected Mushroom - “Saeed”**

I feel ashamed, again and again

Nothing to give, and no-one to blame

During the day, I guess I'm OK 

[x5]

At night

I sit by your side

Waiting for you, to give me a sign

I'm counting the days

And have nothing to say

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same

Stop the bleed inside and feel again

Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins

I've got nothing to say to you

I hope I can chill and stay the same

Stop the bleed inside and feel again

Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...

I feel ashamed, again and again, nothing to give, no one to blame, during the day

I guess I'm OK

At night, I sit by your side

Waiting for you, to give me a sign

I'm counting the days, and have nothing to say

(cut the chain of lies, you've been feeding my veins)

_ [x6] _

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same

Stop the bleed inside and feel again

Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins

I've got nothing to say to you

I hope I can chill and stay the same

Stop the bleed inside and feel again

Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...

I hope I can chill and stay the same

Stop the bleed inside and feel again

Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins

I've got nothing to say to you

I hope I can chill and stay the same

Stop the bleed inside and feel again

Cut the chain of lies I've been beating myself without nothing to say to you, nothing to say to you

\---

**Extra Song Bonus!!** I couldn’t help but make a reference in the fic to “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies. This song and band are awesome. Youtube it. (The lyrics are hella long, so I won’t post them all here. Plus you really  _ have _ to hear the delivery. But here is part:)

**Suicidal Tendencies - “Institutionalized** ”

I was in my room and I was just like staring at the wall thinking about everything.

But then again, I was thinking about nothing

And then my mom came in and I didn't even know she was there.

She called my name and I didn't hear her and then she started screaming: MIKE! MIKE!

And I go:

What, what's the matter?

She goes:

What's the matter with you?

I go:

There's nothing wrong mom.

She's all:

Don't tell me that, you're on drugs!

I go:

No, mom, I'm not on drugs. I'm okay. I was just thinking, you know, why don't you get me a Pepsi?

She goes:

NO, you're on drugs!

I go:

Mom, I'm okay, I'm just thinking.

She goes: 

No, you're not thinking, you're on drugs! Normal people don't be acting that way!

I go: 

Mom, just get me a Pepsi, please.

_ All I want is a Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me. _

_ All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me! _

_ Just a Pepsi! _

They give you a white shirt with long sleeves

Tied around you're back, you're treated like thieves

Drug you up because they're lazy

It's too much work to help a crazy

I'm not crazy - Institution

You're the one who's crazy - Institution

You're driving me crazy - Institution

They stuck me in an institution,

Said it was the only solution,

to give me the needed professional help,

to protect me from the enemy - Myself

I was sitting in my room when my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up a chair and they sat down.

They go:

Mike, we need to talk to you.

And I go:

Okay what's the matter?

They go:

Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you've been having a lot of problems,

And you've been going off for no reason and we're afraid you're going to hurt somebody,

And we're afraid you're going to hurt yourself.

So we decided that it would be in you're best interest if we put you somewhere

Where you could get the help that you need.

And I go:

_ Wait, what are you talking about, WE decided!? _

_ MY best interests?! How do you know what MY best interest is? _

_ How can you say what MY best interest is? What are you trying to say, I'M crazy? _

_ When I went to YOUR schools, I went to YOUR churches, _

_ I went to YOUR institutional learning facilities?! So how can you say I'M crazy? _

They say they're gonna fix my brain

Alleviate my suffering and my pain

But by the time they fix my head

Mentally I'll be dead

I'm not crazy - Institution

You're the one who's crazy - Institution

You're driving me crazy - Institution

They stuck me in an institution,

Said it was the only solution,

to give me the needed professional help,

to protect me from the enemy - Myself

Doesn't matter, I'll probably get hit by a car anyways.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Killing Time

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 5: Killing Time 

_Two months later..._

Dr. Robert Singer was relaxing in his office when rapid knocking burst upon his door. He consulted his watch, seeing that it was still early for his 10 a.m. appointment. “Come in?” he said.

Paulo, the orderly poked his head in. “You have a few minutes, Doc?”

Dr. Singer ran a hand over his greying beard. “Is Winchester with you?” he guessed.

“Yeah. He wanted to come early for some reason.”

“It’s fine.”

Paulo moved from the doorway and ushered in his charge.

“Heya, Bobby.” Dean greeted him as he slid into the room and sat sloppily in one of the available chairs. He certainly had a way of sprawling that made him look like he was lying on a bed instead of actually sitting in a chair.

“That’s Robert, or Dr. Singer. Dean, we’ve talked about this.”

“Sure, sure,” the young man said congenially with a fat smile upon his face. “Whatever you say.” It was obvious he took great joy in trying to harass him with the informal nickname.

Dr. Singer internally shook his head as he got more settled.

“So, listen, Doc,” Dean said brightly, leaning forward in his chair. “I have great news!”

“Oh? And what might that be?” ‘News’, he ruminated absently, could be the most trivial of matters to his patients, such as discovering a new crack in the wall, or hearing that a new side dish was going to be served in the cafeteria. Or, depending on the patient, it could be something that was all in their head. It didn’t really matter what it was. As long as it was important to them, his job was to show interest and not minimalize their feelings. It was a good sign when they wanted to share information with him, confide in him. It showed trust and that was key to his being able to help them.

Of course, he did expect more from the young man in front of him than an accounting of cracked plaster. But he would refrain from further expectations. There had been days where he wasn’t sure whether Dean didn’t suffer from general delusions, but it was still something that was hard to pin down. He was pretty closed-lipped about important things.

There was an intense gleam in Dean’s eyes as he said , “Sammy’s waking up today.”

Dr. Singer tapped a pencil against his leg. Sam Campbell, Dean’s brother, was suffering a sort of ‘ _comatoid catatonia’_ , a condition that is diagnosed only after the common medical/neurological etiologies of a coma had been considered and ruled out. Catatonia as a psychiatric coma was rare, but not unheard of. It could arise from many different sources such as depression, emotional or psychological trauma, or even as a symptom of a condition such as schizophrenia. It was undetermined as to what the cause was in Sam’s case. As such, treatment was difficult.

Sam had entered the hospital a little over 2 months ago. He’d shown signs of cognizance, yet had not regained a wakeful state in this time.

He was afraid that it was having an affect on Dean’s stability. Around 3 weeks after he’d started visiting his brother in his room, Dean had seemed to suffer a breakdown. Nothing overt to the casual observer, at least not at first, except for a tendency to avoid others. But as time passed and there was no change in Sam’s condition, Dean got worse. His behavior and speech had become vague and a little odd and he started to avoid others entirely. He spent a good portion of his time holed up in Sam’s room and could be openly hostile if anyone so much as mentioned his brother or leaving his side. Robert suspected that they had been very close and that the pressure had finally gotten to him. Unfortunately, he’d had to alter Dean’s medication to compensate for it. This exacerbated the strange behavior, but Dean now seemed to be eating and taking better care of himself, and was not as adverse to socializing as before.

If Sam did ever regain consciousness, it was quite possible that Dean would recover completely and the medication could once more be reduced or eliminated. However, this idea that Sam was going to wake up soon might just be another flight of fancy. He’d seen the cycle of depression, denial and hopefulness plenty of times.

“What makes you so sure?” he asked the dark-haired young man.

“I just know. I visit him everyday, you see.” He seemed proud over this fact. “So I can just tell.” His head tilted in challenge, as if he was expecting he might be argued with.

Dr. Singer nodded, deciding to go for a positive note. Who was he to say it wouldn’t happen? It _was_ possible. Just not likely. Either way, Dean needed his hope. “Well, if he does wake soon, I look forward to speaking with him.”

“Not before I do.” Dean said warningly, eyes sharpening and body language becoming closed. “I found out first. It’s my right.”

Robert didn’t argue with him but made note of the aggression and over-protectiveness. “You will be his first visitor,” he confirmed and Dean visibly relaxed.

The doctors, himself included, would naturally need to see Sam first and make assessments. But there was no need to tell Dean ‘no’ and upset him further. He really would be the first ‘visitor’ after all. Just not the first person to interact with Sam. It was best to find ways to say ‘yes’ to the patients whenever possible. It let them maintain stability and calm which was better for them.

* * *

Sam felt like he was going to be sick. His head felt like hell and he was horribly disoriented. He clutched the sheets as a wave of nausea and a detached wave of panic lapped at him.

He’d woken up a few minutes ago in a room he’d never seen before, stomach gurgling emptily and his throat on fire. His vision was also blurry. Still, he could make out that the room was square, had a window on one end to his right and had short vertical blinds along the wall behind him and wrapping around to his left where there was a door. They only went about halfway down the wall from the ceiling and seemed to indicate somebody having some odd taste for placing windows.

Upon inspection, he was also hooked up to a bunch of tubes and a few wires. They really bugged him, just seeing them sticking out of him, so he started pulling them out. The medical tape really hurt when he pulled it up off of his inner arm but he winced more over the sight of the needle with its flexible plastic wings that he had to slide out of his vein. It made his knees go kind of weak and his head start to spin. There was another sticking out of the top of his left hand, and he got rid of that one, too.

He guessed that if he was hooked up to this much equipment, and had no idea how he got here, he was probably out of it enough that they might have him on a catheter. He shuddered. Seriously, medical shit could really freak him out.

He took a deep breath and flipped the blankets off of his lap and did indeed find himself so endowed. “Oh, god,” he said as his stomach protested the thought of the tube that had a direct line to his bladder being put in, or being pulled out again. “Great.”

Sure, he was smart enough for med school but there were more than a few reasons he chose law. One of those reasons was currently staring him in the face. He was squeamish as hell about stuff like this.

There were more tubes on the catheter contraption than he’d expected, as well as a valve, and even a balloon-like thingy. It definitely looked like something that needed expertise to remove. He had the urge to just try getting rid of the thing himself, but he was afraid of either passing out mid-effort, or permanently damaging his own equipment. He flipped the blanket back over himself and turned his head away quickly, eyes wide, jaw set and expression somewhat blank as he tried not to think about it. Tried to forcibly to forget its existence.

His eyes started roving the room again after the initial panicked feeling subsided. It was very white in here. The room, the blankets and sheets, his hospital gown. At least, he thought it was a hospital gown.

“Where’s a nurse when you need one?” he said in a voice that was raspy with under use. He looked for a nurse’s call button. They ought to be able to get this thing off of him, and the sooner the better. But he couldn’t find one. Another oddity was the lack of a television mounted near the ceiling. All hospital rooms had those these days, didn’t they? There were two doors, one with a thin, rectangular window, on the same wall with the blinds, and the other with none. The one with a window was the way out. The other was probably a bathroom. He felt like he could stand to shower, as if he’d been in bed for days, though not before finding that nurse he needed.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and noted that his back felt like utter hell. How long had he _been_ in this bed?

Standing proved to be an unforeseen obstacle to walking. He nearly crashed face-first onto the linoleum when he attempted it, knocking over the rack that held the IV bags he’d been connected to in the process. He caught himself on the bedside table that luckily enough was bolted to the floor. _Though, that is a bit odd,_ he thought.

Sam gathered himself and shuffled slowly to the door via the perimeter of the room, steadying himself with the wall. He felt astoundingly weak and rubber-legged. But he was determined, perhaps to a fault, and he refused to sit around, waiting for someone to happen by. He’d go find someone himself.

He made it to the door and triumphantly turned the handle. There was a small click, like the sound of a lock being released.

Edging out of the room, he was taken quite suddenly by a wave of disorientation. The hallway looked _nothing_ like a hospital. For one, there were no bumper rails. Secondly, the floor was made of a sort of laminated red brick which did not lie level and gave the impression of being somewhat haphazard and cockeyed. And another thing, the hall was deserted. Hospitals were busy places. Nurses, doctors, and other staff could always be seen bustling to and fro. He felt his brows draw together in a an anxious frown which was becoming more and more familiar upon his face.

_But if this isn’t a hospital... Where the hell am I?_

He could hear some distant voices and was no longer sure if he should seek them out or avoid them.

* * *

Dean rounded the corner, swinging Sam’s room key on his finger as he whistled. He’d been by 3 times already today, but thought another visit couldn’t hurt. Just as he’d told the doc, he was certain it would be today that Sam finally snapped out of it. He’d said something to Bobby about his keen observational skills or whatever, but really? He just had a feeling.

“Hm?” He saw someone down the hall, leaning hard against the wall, clothed in one of the facility dresses, and wearing nothing on their feet. Well, they weren’t really dresses. More like a cloth hospital gown that had little snap buttons all the way up the back and reached most people’s knees. He should know. He’d been wearing one himself shortly after Sammy had come here.

He stopped in front of Sam’s room, eyes still on the person making their way slowly down the hall, leaning heavily against the wall. Aside from the fact that nothing was down there except for the locked entrance to the women’s residences, something was bothering him about the patient. He frowned, and the urge to check into the stranger tugged at him insistently. He’d been holding the key out to unlock Sam’s door, but found himself pocketing it distractedly before continuing down the hall.

As he got within maybe 20 feet, the person suddenly straightened from where they’d been hunching over and Dean’s heart started to thud in his chest. There was something about them - their frame and their profile. Something so familiar, even down to the sweep of wavy hair at the back of their neck. “Sam?” he said, not sure what he was expecting. Maybe a stranger’s face wearing an odd look? Maybe a hearty ‘piss off’? It didn’t really matter, as long as they turned around.

The brunet turned to him with lost eyes, bangs falling across his pale forehead in a way that made him look so vulnerable and much younger than he was. “Where am I?” Sam said in a tight, roughened voice.

 _Oh, god, Sammy, you’re awake._ The relief that washed through Dean in that moment threatened to buckle his legs.

He wanted so badly to run to Sam and embrace him. It had been so long, and he’d been so worried... but he had to remember what Bobby had told him. He shouldn’t let Sammy know it was him right away. He had to play the stranger at least until his baby brother wasn’t in danger of relapsing. As much as it hurt him to act like he had no ties to Sam, especially when all he’d ever wanted was the chance to see him and talk to him again, it was for the best. He put his own feelings aside.

“You’re in a hospital,” Dean said casually.

“No,” Sam said, gritting his teeth, “I’m not. Don’t lie to me.” He gestured vaguely to the realm around them with his dark grey eyes. “This look like any sort of normal hospital to you?” His tone was sharp. Wary.

Dean held his hands up to show he was harmless. It stung that Sam was suspicious of _him_ , of all people. He gave his brother a crooked smile. “Yeah, it isn’t much to look at, is it? But it is a hospital. Technically.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is Oak Grove. A hospital for drug rehab, recovering alcoholics, and the occasional mental case.” So, he was exaggerating a little. OG was mainly for mental cases. But he was trying to reassure Sam, not make him more twitchy than he already was.

Sam fixed him with an assessing gaze. “And which one are you?”

Dean considered lying, but decided not to for some reason. “A misdiagnosed mental case,” he said with a wink. “How about you?”

“Me?” Sam seemed confused. “I don’t... know. I... woke up here and--” he broke off and his eyes had a sort of glazed look. His skin was pretty pale, too. More so than seemed normal.

“Hey,” Dean said, “maybe you shouldn’t be wandering around out here. You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Sam said faintly, stubbornness echoing in his voice.

“C’mon, I’ll help you back to your room,” Dean offered, reaching for Sam, and had his hand abruptly swatted off.

“I said, I’m fine,” Sam ground out. “I don’t need your help.” He turned away and actually had the nerve to start edging down the hall again, despite the sweat that had broken out on his brow. He was the poster child for stubborn and obstinate, just as he always had been when he got an idea in his head.

“For chrissakes,” Dean muttered impatiently, grabbing Sam and slinging his arm around his neck, amid protests. “Quit acting like a stubborn little _bitch_ and let me help you!” he said in irritation. He felt Sam’s entire body stiffen and caught a glimpse of wide grey eyes staring at him like he was the Sphinx. “Where’s your room?” he said gruffly, looking down the hall and hoping Sam wasn’t already busily figuring out who he was.

He needed to be more careful, not fall into old habits or do anything else that might give him away.

“Fourth door down on the right,” Sam said quietly. “I think.”

“All right then.” Dean noticed that the hip and waist beneath his hand were too thin and that he felt kind of strange holding Sammy like this. He shook his head. It had to be the switching back and forth between relief, elation, anger, and relief again in quick succession. Not to mention the lies, and having Sam’s gaze resting on him from so close up.

They made it back to the room and Dean eased Sam through the doorway, taking in the state of things inside. The standing rack that held the bags of IV fluids was on the floor and there was a mess of tubes and wires scattered about. “Jesus, what’d you do, ripping all that stuff off you like that?”

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, looking cowed.

“Hey, don’t apologize to me, I’m not your keeper.” Dean tried to keep his voice sounding off-handed and uninvolved, unlike a moment ago. This acting thing was harder than he’d thought. “I just feel bad for the med staff,” he explained with a shrug, helping Sam sit on the bed. “They were trying so hard to keep you in one piece. Seems like a shitty way to say ‘ _thank you_ ’.”

“Seems like you know an awful lot about it,” Sam said then, gazing at Dean through the tops of his eyes. His lips were in the beginnings of that pouting look that was so hard to resist.

Dean looked away. “You’re kind of well known around here. It isn’t every day we get someone in who can’t even wake up long enough to take a piss on his own.” He tried to create some distance between them with his words. “There was a pool going, betting on how long you’d be out of it.”

“Is that so,” Sam said so quietly, Dean wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it.

“Well, I should be going,” Dean told him, turning his back on his brother, even though he wanted to stay. “Seems like I owe people some money.”

“Wait!”

Dean looked over his shoulder, making sure to affix an unimpressed look upon his face. “What?”

Sam looked conflicted, staring at him with those expressive grey eyes of his. “Do I... know you?”

“Nah. I’d remember you.”

Sam’s face flushed a little and Dean wondered why his own words had come out sounding vaguely solicitous. He hadn’t meant them to, but... He shrugged and tossed Sam a questionable smile. He supposed if Sam thought he was being hit on, it was all the less likely that he would assume they were brothers.

“Um,” Sam said.

Dean let himself frown discouragingly. “What now?” He was afraid Sam was going to ask him his name. He wanted to avoid that for at least a bit longer. “You need a nurse or something? I can think of one thing you probably weren’t too eager to pull off of you.”

The flush on his brother’s face was instant. “Geez, have some decency, would you?” Sam muttered. He rubbed a hand over his face, seeming to collect himself. “Fine, just--,” he looked away. “Just get someone then.”

“Sure thing, princess,” Dean shrugged again, heading for the door.

* * *

Sam watched him go, aggravated that he hadn’t managed to ask the guy his name. He wasn’t sure they’d ever met before either, but... there was something that was so familiar about him.

His dark hair was spiky and long on the top, shorter on the sides, and his eyes... they reminded him of someone. Sam ran his thumb over his lip, deep in thought. The guy’s face was arresting and those green eyes sometimes had a strange look to them. Sam was certain that he would remember meeting someone like him before, but...

He lay back in the bed, trying to assess his fucked up state of being. He felt weak as a kitten, and had even been reacting oddly to things. Out in the hall, he’d felt a strange mix of desperation and uncertainty that had peaked at the man’s arrival. He’d felt oddly threatened and had responded with anger.

The man had ignored him and made short work of his protests, herding him along like he’d done it every day of his life. It almost reminded him of his brother Dean.

Sam closed his eyes. But Dean hadn’t ever made him feel antsy like this, not that he could recall. And he certainly hadn’t been able to make him blush with a few careless words and a tilted smile.

_I’m just out of sorts. Thinking too much about things. I’ll be back to normal in no time._

Besides, what were the chances he’d meet his brother here anyway? He hadn’t been able to locate him even when he’d tried.

He wondered if he’d gotten a chance to ask the guy to stay, if he would have. He didn’t really want to be alone. Just now, he could hardly even imagine there being other souls in this place. The dark-haired guy with his mercurial moods seemed almost like an apparition. Or perhaps he himself was. What if he’d died and just didn’t realize it?

“Sam?” Green eyes met his, making his heart skip a beat as the subject of his thoughts poked his head into the room. “Some doctors and stuff will be by in a minute. Hang tight.”

Sam nodded.

“You okay?” the guy asked, giving him a scrutinizing glance.

Sam nodded again, thinking, _No, I’m not._

“You want me to stay or something?” the dark-haired man offered lightly, as if he hadn’t just said a moment ago that he had places to be.

Sam was surprised. It was like his thoughts had been clearly spoken aloud, but he hadn’t said a word. And here again was the strangely caring manner that phased in and out from the self-proclaimed mental case. Though the guy _had_ said he was misdiagnosed... “Not if you have somewhere to be.”

_He’d just said a minute ago that he had to get going. Had that been just an excuse?_

The guy shrugged with a rueful smile. “Ah, well. Guess the guys can wait a bit to collect on our bet, huh, Samm-?”

He looked vaguely uncomfortable suddenly as he sat on Sam’s bed. A little twitchy.

 _That was odd, wasn’t it?_   Sam thought. It had almost seemed like he was going to say ‘Sammy’. But only his family had ever called him that, making him sound like a little kid. Could he be 100% sure this wasn’t his brother? He hadn’t seen him in over 10 years. Hell, he didn’t even know if Dean was alive.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Muhammad,” the green-eyed man said with a flourish. To Sam’s skeptical look, he added, “Muhammad the Majestic.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, whatever, man.”

“What, you don’t think I’m majestic?” His lips were curving up into a half smirk that was kind of fascinating to watch unfold. “And here I was being humble. I’ve been told that _magnificent_ is a more fitting description,” his eyes were playful beneath the dark fringe of his lashes, “usually during pillow talk.”

Sam started to laugh, but it died in his throat as fingertips brushed his cheek. He was suddenly having trouble remembering to breathe. There was suddenly a lot less space between them than he remembered. Green eyes filled his vision.

A knock came at the door. “Mr. Campbell?”

The intensity of those strange eyes left him as his visitor turned towards the door and said, “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”

“Yes,” Sam spoke up as his visitor left the bed, “come in.”

A gaggle of men and women in white coats crowded in through the door. Sam felt anxiety wash over him. Why were there so many of them? They were all looking at him expectantly and many held metal clipboards in front of them with pens poised.

Sam looked for spiky dark hair but saw none. His green-eyed spectre had vanished, leaving once again without giving a proper name.

Within moments, he was subject to a barrage of questions from one of the doctors while the rest listened and took notes. A woman, presumably a nurse, began righting the fallen IV stand and coiling tubes and wires. She even tucked him back into his bed as he struggled to answer the questions about how he felt, why he’d been out of bed and why he’d taken it upon himself to remove the IVs and such.

He explained the best he could, and expressed his desire for food, a shower and (embarrassingly enough) the removal of the cath.

The one nurse spoke to him as a doctor shone a light in his eye. “Honey, are you sure you’ll be able to take care of ‘business’ by yourself? You look a little worn out.”

“Get it off of me or I’ll take my chances taking it off myself,” he said with a steely gaze.

Her eyebrows raised in surprise, disappearing beneath fluffy blonde bangs. “All right, sugar,” the older woman said. “Have it your way.”

“Marilene,” one of the men said warningly.

She rolled her eyes. “Right, right.” She looked at Sam and said, “Sorry, _Samuel_ ,” in a way that made him certain she’d been reprimanded for the way she addressed patients before. She was pretty nonchalant about it, and he bet that if all of them left the room, he’d be back to ‘Sugar’ in no time.

“Sam,” the man that had shone the light in his eyes said, “I’m Dr. Robert Singer. Please feel free to ask for me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Sure thing, Bobby,” Sam said absently. For some reason he thought his brother would call the man that, and he couldn’t help himself. He really missed him. All the doctor needed was a grungy ball cap on his head and some auto-mechanic tools in his hands to really look like a ‘Bobby’. He just had the face and the beard for it. But his eyes were sharp, showing a great intellect, and were kind as well. Dean would’ve had a field day teasing someone like him.

Sam didn’t notice the weird look he received. “Please call me Robert, or Dr. Singer,” the man replied. He certainly was as even-keel as he looked. “You may find it easier to contact me that way.”

“Sure. Sorry.” Sam flashed him a half-hearted smile that fell off his face almost instantaneously.

“Marilene will assist you with your requests for now. Please try not to venture outside again. We’ll make arrangements for you very soon, just allow us a little time.”

He nodded at the doctor, wondering why everyone was so bent out of shape over him leaving the room.

“Alright, ladies and gents,” the blonde nurse said, waving everyone out. “Give us a little privacy.”

Once they were out, she turned to Sam. “Alright, honey, show me your goods.”

He groaned internally, wanting to do nothing but ignore such a request, but saw no alternative if he wanted to be rid of the catheter.

He really shouldn’t be this shy. It wasn’t like he’d never been seen naked before; he’d had several girlfriends and was no stranger to the bedroom. Besides, someone had to have put this thing in in the first place. But he couldn’t help his face flushing with discomfort. He felt like a bug on a plate.

“So, I saw you had some company earlier,” she said conversationally as she waited for him to be ready.

His brows drew together. “Do you know him?”

She shrugged and started working on the cath - fiddling with the valve or something. “Sure. He’s a regular character. Cute, too.”

“What’s he in here for?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” she said regretfully. “Patient confidentiality and all. But I’m sure you can figure out why most people are here if you are observant enough.”

“He said he was misdiagnoss--gah!” Sam said as he felt something horribly unpleasant in the locale of his nether regions. He glared accusingly at the nurse.

“All done,” she announced, putting the thing aside and taking the cath bag off of his leg. “Good job.”

He dropped his head back onto his pillows and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. That queasy feeling was back. He was grateful that she had been nothing but professional, and that she had distracted him with conversation, but it had still been awful.

“You still up for that bath?”

“Innaminute,” he muttered, his parts still feeling violated. “And it was a shower I wanted.”

“Look, poptart, I know you may _think_ you can handle a shower,” she said dubiously, “but I’m the one responsible if you fall and crack your head.” He opened his eyes and she was standing with her arms crossed over her chest. “You can have a normal bath or a sponge bath. Your choice.”

He frowned at her, wanting to argue.

“The sponge bath leaves a lot less to the imagination,” she prompted, guessing correctly that modesty was a consideration. “And it’d be harder to do your hair up right.”

“You’re making me sound like some kind of girl,” he accused.

“Just think how nice it will be to scrub some shampoo into it with some deliciously hot water. It’ll feel so much better if you can wash it for real.”

 _Damn it. She has a point._ His hair felt sort of lank and unappealing to him and it was one of the reasons he’d really been set on getting a shower or something in the first place. “Okay, you win.”

“Glad you can see reason. Just give me a minute to start the tub filling.”

* * *

Dean left Sam with the doctors, feeling wildly unsettled.

_Was I just flirting with my own brother?_

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He’d only been trying to throw Sam off the scent, able to sense the questions that were brimming under the surface, a breath away from being asked, and had decided that embarrassing him or being lewd would be a good way to take the heat off... keep him from asking his name... But... He hadn’t counted on Sam reacting like he did, blushing at him like that. Dean hadn’t even realized what he was saying afterwards, or even what he was doing, until the doctors arrived and he’d been nearly close enough to kiss him. It wasn’t intentional, it had just sort of happened.

 _Jesus._ **_Was_ ** _I going to kiss him?_

Just how far was he planning to take this _‘I’m-not-your-brother’_ thing? It was obvious he was taking this acting role too far.

But the problem might lay in his desperation not to lose Sammy to the coma again. So what if he was throwing himself into this role in order to be convincing? So what if he had nearly taken things too far? He was doing it for Sam. And Sam would understand why he had to do this. Even if there was some sort of awkward mishap along the way.

He told himself these things, and it made perfect sense. And yet... he could remember all too clearly what it had felt like to be too close to those deep grey eyes.

* * *

TBC

 **A/N:** Chapter title is from the song Killing Time. I really love this one. If you listen, check out the original one, not the Paul Oakenfold remix. (At least at first). Youtube *hint hint*. (I take no responsibility for any of the videos, and heartily recommend you just listen without looking at them. I’m only plugging the songs.)

 

**Infected Mushroom - “Killing Time”**

In my dreams

(I can kill you)

Close to me

You open the cage and he sets you free

Come to me

(we run away forever from this misery)

Lost my mind

Are you calling me

Killing time that I left behind

Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around

I'm always falling down

Killing time that I left behind

Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around

It's coming for you now

(So how can it be)

The color of the world had turned dark on me

(Falling free)

Losing my reflection and my clarity

(Talk to me)

I feel the sickness taking over me

(Let me be)

Imagining that you are here with me

Killing time that I left behind

Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around

I'm always falling down

Killing time that I left behind

Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around

It's coming for you now


	6. Becoming Insane

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

**** Ch. 6: Becoming Insane

Dean stayed in his room the next day, not coming out for anything except eventual trips to the bathroom. Usually, he would have been absolutely starving, but today his appetite was elusive. His face was set in a perpetual frown, focus turned inward as he sat on his bed, back to the wall. His arms were draped across his knees, and he bounced his hand idly from time to time.

_ What am I going to do about Sam? _

Upon deeper introspection, he was even more disturbed about their interaction. He wanted a cigarette but couldn’t be bothered trying to go outside. His hand twitched. Since last night, he kept seeing Sammy in the wrong way, kept remembering things like the feel of his arm looped around his neck as he’d helped him back to his room, or...

_ Christ. _ He didn’t even like admitting it to himself. But he wasn’t so sure it was ‘being immersed in his role’ that had made him drift so close to Sam. 

“This is crazy,” he said aloud, his voice gruff and pissed off.

He didn’t want to see Sam until he’d gotten this sorted out. Maybe being in these institutions so long was starting to rub off on him. Maybe he was going insane?

“I should talk to Bobby,” he muttered. The longer he had to play Sam’s not-brother, the more screwed up this could get. It was better if he could say, ‘Hey, it’s me, Dean. How ya doing, Sammy?’ If he could be Sam’s brother again, all of this would go away. Bobby could tell him how long until they were in the clear.

Then he wouldn’t have to keep seeing Sam’s startled flush in his head. He wouldn’t find himself wondering what Sam would have done if he had leaned forward and made to kiss him. Would he have realized what was about to happen? Would he have allowed it?

Unhappiness spiked through him again and he clutched his head in his hands. “Gah! What the hell?”

It was too late today to talk to Bobby. He’d have to wait till morning. Which would take a small eternity with how restless he was. What he wouldn’t give for a few beers. He needed something to kill the time. Anything.

He thought guiltily that he should still go see Sam and that, unlike him, Sam had no choice but to be confined to his room. He would have no way to pass the time or the ability to talk to anyone, save maybe a nurse here and there. He shouldn’t have to suffer because his big brother was losing his goddamn mind.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he murmured. “Maybe tomorrow.” He still wasn’t sure how to explain why he’d be allowed to visit his brother when no one else was. Sam was no fool. He’d be suspicious and the cat would soon be out of the bag.

* * *

“Hi, Dr. Singer,” Sam said politely the next morning, grateful as hell to have someone to talk to. He was bored out of his mind. He’d hoped that the green-eyed guy might reappear, but he had not. 

“Good morning, Samuel.”

“Ah, just ‘Sam’ is fine.”

“Of course.” The psychiatrist sat down in a chair that had been added to the room the other day. “How are you feeling?”

Sam gave him a baleful look. “Do you guys all have to say that? It’s so cliche.”

The doctor smiled. “I’ve found quite a number of patients are disappointed when I don’t give in to convention.”

Sam wasn’t sure if he was serious or joking. “I feel okay, I guess. Just incredibly bored.”

“Well, I think I might have the solution for that.”

“Books?” Sam said hopefully. Books could keep him entertained a long while. “Laptop?” The internet would be even better, though he was doubting that was an option.

“Try ‘roommate’,” the doctor said. 

Sam was puzzled. “Really? But how would that help? I’m still supposed to be stuck in this bed and they could come and go as they pleased.”

“True,” he agreed.

“And what if we don’t get along?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem, Sam.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve already met before.”

_ The green-eyed guy? _   he thought with a rush of anxious excitement. He could actually see him again, if that were true, and try to drag some answers out of him. “Muhammad?” he said dubiously, having no other name to go by.

Dr. Singer laughed, eyes full of amusement. “Is that what he told you?”

“Uh...yeah. That isn’t his name, is it?” He wasn’t really asking. He was pretty sure it wasn’t the guy’s name - it had only been a joke.

“Nope.”

“Doc, why him?” He felt suspicious. Was there something they knew that they weren’t telling him?

“Well, we don’t want to have you integrate with the other residents just yet. We’d like to keep you here for observation, but we don’t want to leave you isolated. A roommate would be ideal. ‘Muhammad’ is convenient as he’d already met you by accident. None of the other residents even know you’re awake.”

“Oh.” Sam felt oddly disappointed.

“I’ll also bring you some books. I apologize for the lack of mental stimulation you’ve been given since your waking. Thank you for being patient.”

“Uh. Sure.” Sam thought it was odd he was being thanked. What else was he supposed to do?

“How is your appetite? Have you been able to keep anything down?”

“Applesauce?” he recalled. “A little soup?” 

“So, your stomach is still adjusting to solid food then?”

“I guess so. I tried to eat some chicken, but I got some vicious stomach cramps and then I threw it back up again anyway.”

Dr. Singer nodded and wrote something down on his metal clipboard. “That sort of thing should subside within the week.” He looked up. “How is your head? Any muzziness? Headaches? Bright lights bother you?”

“The lights bother me a little. Makes my eyes feel kind of strained and like I’m about to get a tension headache.”

“We can dim them for you.”

“Thanks.”

The psychiatrist tapped his pen against his leg consideringly. “And have you experienced any... altered states of consciousness?” Sam gave him a puzzled look and he went on to explain. “Any random shortness of breath? Hyperventilation without apparent cause?” Sam shook his head. “Realistic dreams? Fear? Paranoia?” Sam was still shaking his head. “Have you heard or seen anything you thought was out of the ordinary?”

“Only this place,” Sam said truthfully. “It felt really weird to wake up here. I mean, I thought it was hospital, and then I wondered if maybe I’d died or something. It was so deserted.” 

Dr. Singer nodded. “And you were suffering a panic attack in the hall after leaving this room?”

Sam frowned. He hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. “I don’t think I was.”

“Perhaps you weren’t aware of it, but you were showing signs of it when I saw you the other day, just after it happened. Sweating, paleness, eyes constricting and dilating. Think back to when you were alone in the hall. What was on your mind?”

“Well... I was starting to feel like I was in some sort of nightmare. Only everything felt really real. I had no idea where I was and having the catheter on me was already kind of freaking me out.” He paused, seeing it all again. The hall with its crooked floor, and the echoing silence, the cavernous ceiling. The disorientation that had swamped him. The sudden fear that anyone he did encounter would be a threat to his well-being. And there had been one wild thought - that he’d been kidnapped and brought to some strange location to be experimented on. He wasn’t sure where that had come from exactly but as he’d edged down the hall, he was convinced that he needed to do so in order to free himself.

It was only that familiar voice that had given him pause, calling his name. He’d responded automatically, feeling for some reason that help had arrived.

But the green-eyed man had seemed shifty, and his unfounded trust fell off sharply. 

He couldn’t believe in those eyes as they tilted strangely, or that full mouth twisted into a reserved, quirked smile - until the guy had the nerve to call him a bitch. In that moment, he was reminded so forcefully of Dean, that years of conditioning had taken over and he meekly went along with his offer of assistance, though he’d been fighting it so hard only moments before. He was just so stunned wondering if the guy helping him to his room actually could be his brother. 

“Sam?”

“Huh?” 

Sam realized from the doctor’s patient expression that he’d totally zoned out. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.” Dr. Singer said with a faint smile. “I must be going, but you’ll see that the extra bed is brought in soon, along with some reading material.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

Dean paced the floor of the psychiatrist’s office angrily. “So you’re telling me that not only do I need to keep up this charade for at least another week, _at the_ _minimum_ , I have to stay in the same room??” He growled in frustration. “Do you have _any_ idea what you’re doing to me here?”

“No,” Dr. Singer said calmly. “Do enlighten me.”

Dean shot him a nasty look.

“What does it matter, Dean? You were spending nearly all of your time in there.”

“But that was  _ before _ he woke up!” He gesticulated aggressively. “Everything’s different now!”

Bobby was giving him that  _ ‘professional interest’   _ face. It was pissing him off. Dean strode over to the desk he was sitting at and slammed his hands upon it. “What don’t you understand?! I can’t keep this up!”

“Dean, it’s only been a few days,” the older man said reasonably. “Is there something else going on that you’d like to tell me about?”

“No,” Dean said shortly.

“Then we will proceed as planned. The bed should be in by now. Please take some of my books down to Sam so he has something with which to enrich his brain.”

Dean growled again and strode over to the shelves, grabbing things off of it at random.

“This may or may not be of interest to you,” Dr. Singer said, “but it seemed that this would be the best way to explain your presence upon Sam’s waking. I’m sorry if you feel inconvenienced. The other consideration was keeping Sam from encountering people who knew you that might call you by name. Worst of all, your last name. Not even a flawless charade would be able to withstand that.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean said in a clipped tone. Of course Bobby had had his reasons, and they were good ones, Dean had to admit, but this put him in such a tight spot! He wasn’t in a mood to be pleasant.

Stalking out of the office, a stack of books in his hands, he ran into Gordon.

“Hello, my  _ friend _ ,” the black man said, conveying levels of meaning that were known only to him.

“Get bent,” Dean said, weaving around him.

“I heard a rumor, Winchester,” Gordon called at his back as he kept pace. “A real doozy of a rumor. Care to hear it?”

Dean stiffened. “Not really.”

“That pretty boy Sammy has woken up, and guess who he is?”

“His name is Sam,” Dean corrected, hating Gordon’s ignorant, mocking use of the nickname. 

“Yes, Sam. Sam Winchester.”

Dean stopped walking and turned to look at him. “What, so you’re telling me I have a brother now?” He put as much scorn into his voice as he could. “Where the fuck did you hear that? That’s fucking asinine.”

“Is it?” Gordon persisted, eyes alight. “I suppose my source might have misheard you the day Sammy came in, but I don’t think so. You’re crazy, Winchester, but even you have a standard set of behaviors you generally stick to. What made you run after Sam ‘Campbell’ like a bat out of hell, knowing that Dillan and his crew would never let you get that far?”

“Well, shit, Gordon. If I’m crazy, what in the hell does that make you?”

White teeth flashed in a wide smile. “Answer the question.”

Dean smiled back. “Sorry, it’s against my policy to cooperate with assholes.”

“There’s a reason they’re letting you in there to see him.” Gordon’s tone was becoming hostile. “It isn’t coincidence.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re paranoid?”

“You--!”

“Hey, Gordon,” another voice called out. One of the orderlies. “Leave Winchester alone. He has a delivery to make for Doc Singer.”

“This isn’t over, Winchester,” Gordon hissed.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Is it ever?”

“Gordon!” the orderly snapped as the man took a menacing step towards him, looking like he wanted to put his fist through Dean’s teeth. “Move it along!”

Dean shrugged off the encounter and continued his trek downstairs to his brother’s room. He was still in a bad mood, but somehow being able to antagonize Gordon a bit made him feel a little better. Go figure.  _ And here I thought the guy was all bad,  _ he thought sarcastically with a twisted smile. 

Things were coming to a head, though. He and Gordon were likely to be crossing fists soon. He welcomed it. He just didn’t welcome the inevitable consequences afterwards.

* * *

Sam had fallen asleep, lulled into a stupor by his intense boredom. He thought he heard the door open. He didn’t pay much attention, it was probably one of the nurses. She didn’t turn on the light so he continued to doze.

“Hey, Mari,” a voice said as the door opened a second time. It was pitched low, so he could barely hear it. “How is he?”

“Hi, Sugar,” a female voice responded in an undertone. Sam thought it must be Marilene. She was the only one who addressed people like that. “Where’ve you been hiding yourself?”

“Around.” There was a small laugh. It sounded fake. Rueful. 

“Well, he seems to be on the mend,” she told him. “But he could do with someone his age to keep him company.”

“Yeah, that’s what Bobby said, so here I am.”

Sam started in surprise at the name. He’d pegged the voice as belonging to the green-eyed guy without a name, but once more he was becoming suspicious that his name was actually  _ Dean _ . 

“Do you mean Dr. Singer?” she asked. “Why do you call him that?”

“Dunno.” The voice sounded like it came with a shrug. “Just looks like a Bobby to me.”

See? Wasn’t he saying what Sam himself had thought earlier? That Dean would have thought Dr. Singer just looked like a ‘Bobby’?

He lay there, pretending to be asleep, but his heart was thudding in his chest.

“Hey, Mari,” the male voice dropped even further. Now Sam really had to strain to hear it. “He ask you anything about me?”

“He asked how you managed to have such a firm looking ass.”

_ What?! _   Sam was indignant.  _ I did  _ **_not_ ** _!   _ He was about to roll over to clarify that, when the conversation resumed with a feminine chuckle.

“Oh, my,” she laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn such a charming shade of red, Dean.”

_ Dean? _   Sam froze.  _ Dean?! As in, his Dean? _

“What is wrong with you, woman?” Dean demanded in a hushed voice. “Making up off-the-wall shit like that...”

“Oh, but it was worth it just to see your face.”

“Ah, whatever,” came the gruff reply. “Now get on out of here unless you have actual work to do.”

“Sure thing, cupcake. See you later.” 

The door closed behind her and Dean walked into the room with a sigh. Sam still lay frozen, wondering if he should say something or not. And if he did, when? Now? 

There was the scuff of feet on the floor and the sound of Dean dropping something weighty onto the second bed. “Goddamn heavy books,” he muttered under his breath.

Sam was facing the second bed and opened his eyes to watch him. There was indeed a leaning tower of books that Dean was busily holding steady while he looked for a better place to put them. 

Here in the dark like this, he could almost picture being back home again, a kid in his bed, with his big brother checking out some suspicious noise he’d heard in the night. The top of the silhouette was the same, his spike-topped hair making the same jagged accent to his profile. Only the body was different. He was no longer a kid. Neither of them were.

He sat up, emotion tearing at his throat. Was this familiar stranger really his brother? Was it possible?

Sam squinted at the figure before him, feeling in his bones that it was. “Dean?” he called softly, experimentally. 

There was a pause where neither of them moved or spoke.

“Good guess,” the dark-haired guy said with an upward quirk of his lips, visible in the stray light. “I’m your roommate.”

“You’re my brother,” Sam corrected slowly as it started to sink in. “Dean.” He hadn’t seen Dean in over 10 years, when he was just a kid.  _ God, it’s been forever.  _ He looked so different, but Sam was sure it was him. His green eyes were the same as he remembered, so were his expressions, the way he talked...

The guy gave him a baleful look. “No, man,” he said shortly. “I’m Dean, but I’m  _ not _   your brother. I’m just your new roommate.”

_ Could I be wrong? _   Sam wondered, brows drawing together in confusion. Uncertainty crashed through the awe from just a moment ago, felling him. The disappointment was crushing and he felt his face begin to fall. “Sorry... my mistake.” 

“No worries,” his not-brother Dean said with a smile, clapping him on the shoulder. “Water under the bridge.”

“Sure,” Sam said, laying back down and turning to face the other way. For a moment, he’d been so sure.

“So, Campbell,” Dean said, and there were sounds of him settling on his bed. “What’s the deal with this brother of yours? Don’t you even know what he looks like?” 

Sam dug his arms under his pillow and scrunched it up to his face. His voice was muffled as he said, “He looks like _you_.”

There was a lengthy silence, broken only by the periodic turning of pages. Dean must’ve had a book out that he was looking at.

“Pretty sad that you can’t even recognize him,” Dean said disparagingly. “Pre-tty sad.”

The tone and the words pissed Sam off. He rolled back over and shot his roommate a glare. “And what the hell would you know about it, huh?”

Dean shrugged and turned a page distractedly. “Maybe nothing. Maybe something.”

“Yeah? Well I haven’t seen my brother since I was 10.”

“Why not?”

“He disappeared.”

Another page turned, and Dean made an appreciative look at whatever he saw there, mouth puckering in a silent whistle. The book seemed to be one on nude photography. His eyes coasted up to Sam’s briefly. “Ever try to look for him?” There was something quietly intense about that gaze.

Sam frowned. “Sure, I tried. But I guess he was too good at not being found.”

“You have any relatives you could have asked?”

Sam readjusted himself on the bed, tucking his feet up and sitting Indian-style. “My dad was even harder to find. And my mom...” He frowned as his head suddenly spiked with pain. “Ow.” He brought his hands up to his temples. “My mom, she...” he groaned as the pain spiked once, twice more, and there were flashes of red. Violence. Smiles. Blood. Nausea swept him up in its vicious hold and everything started spinning.

“Sam!” he heard faintly. “Sammy!” 

Sam almost laughed to himself. Now he was hearing things.

“Sam, open your eyes! Right now, you hear me?” 

There was such desperation in that voice, Sam made an effort to comply, even though he was sure his eyes had never closed. Dean’s anxious face swam into focus and he realized he was being shaken.

“What?” he murmured, not making sense of why a Dean that wasn’t his brother could look at him like that. He remembered one time when he was 6, his brother had given him a look just like that one. He’d gotten his foot stuck between the roots of a tree in the forest and had sprained his ankle before getting knocked out when his head hit the ground. When Dean had finally found him, he’d done nothing but yell at him and tell him he was stupid for getting hurt by something that couldn’t even move. He sounded angry, but his face, the moment Sam had seen it, was panicked and it looked bad, like he was going to be sick. And while he carried on, he’d started to look relieved. Stern, but relieved. 

“Thank god,” Dean said under his breath. His arms were holding Sam steady. “Can you sit up? Lean back?”

Sam nodded weakly and let Dean guide him back onto the bed, resting his head on the pillows. His hand rested on Dean’s forearm, clutching it unconsciously. He could feel the muscles corded and sliding within it.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “I didn’t know this would happen.” He sounded closed off and uncomfortable.

Sam shrugged. “Me neither.” 

“Uh... mind if I?” Dean asked. His left arm was pinned under Sam’s shoulders. His right was still resting beneath Sam’s hands, but had fallen to rest upon his stomach. It felt kind of nice. Comforting.

“My head hurts,” Sam said. “Can’t you just lay here a minute till it stops?”

Dean was silent a moment.

“I guess,” he said finally, and gingerly settled next to Sam.

It was kind of a compromising position. To anybody who walked by, they would have appeared like lovers curled up together. Sam lay on his back, while Dean, because of his arms, was facing him, body less than a foot away.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

\---

If Dean thought such a position was awkward, it was nothing compared to the awkward he felt upon waking up.

He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he opened his eyes and Sam’s sleeping face was turned towards him, mere inches away. It was smooth in sleep, like a little kid’s, and his lashes formed little crescents on his cheeks. His bangs fell across his forehead in unruly waves. Dean reached out to brush them aside, and started as Sam moaned in his sleep, face turning into the touch.

Heart suddenly knocking him in the teeth, Dean’s eyes were pulled to Sam’s lips, which twitched into a smile in his sleep. They parted slightly, and he couldn’t help but notice how full and compelling they looked. He also couldn’t help but notice the fear and excitement that were battling for dominance within him, and the way their legs were intertwined. One of Sam’s legs was thrown up quite high between his own and was becoming one hell of a distraction.

He needed to get out of this arrangement. Before he did something they’d both regret.

Before his free hand reached up again to brush Sam’s hair aside, as it was doing now, and before Sam responded to the touch by tilting his face upwards, closer to his. God help him, he was drifting that two inches lower that brought their lips near to touching. His lower belly clenched tightly as he hung in the balance, not quite stepping over that last boundary, but actively considering doing so. He toyed with the thought of brushing his lips against the ones before him, and his body responded strongly. It reminded him that he had not properly been with anyone for years, aside from quickies with a weak-willed nurse here and there. He’d never been one to show interest in his fellow man.

“Mm,” Sam mumbled, stretching a little as he started to wake.

Dean jumped back just in time. 

“Dean?” Sam queried in a sleep-thickened voice that shot right through him.

“Think my arm’s asleep,” he muttered, tugging at it. He was eager to make a hasty retreat.

Grey eyes blinked at him slowly, refocusing on his face. “You really do look like him.”

“Who?” he asked absently, trying to reclaim his legs before any more errant motion made him press Sam’s body into the mattress beneath his.

“My brother Dean.”

“Well, I can’t exactly help that, can I?” he said a little more harshly than necessary. He was getting desperate.

Hurt flashed over Sam’s face, but was gone in an instant. Hidden. “Yeah. Sorry.” He sat up, helping to untangle their limbs. 

“Now, if you’re done getting your beauty rest,” Dean said, “I’m hitting the shower.” A cold shower, he added mentally.

“Sure. Okay.” Sam was giving him a slightly odd look that he could not decipher.

One thing was for certain, Dean thought as he closed the bathroom door behind him. This arrangement had to change. He was pissed. Not only had he himself set off a dangerous memory in Sam his first  _ 15 minutes  _ in the room, he’d nearly given into his blooming insanity and done something they both would regret.

He’d just have to tell Bobby it wasn’t worth it.

He was going to end up fucking everything up, no matter how hard he was trying not to.

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title from Infected Mushroom - “Becoming Insane”. Yes, there are lyrics, but you just have to listen to this one. There are all sorts of vocal distortions and such going on that just can’t be represented with the words of the song. This, also, is one of my favorites by IM. :)

  
  
  



	7. I Wish

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

**** Ch. 7: I Wish

Robert Singer stood in his office, staring down the haughty glare of the young man who was now officially his most pain-in-the-ass patient at OG.

“Why the hell not?” Dean yelled.

“Because I said so, you idiot,” he practically yelled back.

“Well I can’t do it anymore. Find someone else!”

“There  **is** no one else, Dean. You’re it.”

“You have a whole loony bin full of people and you’re telling me that I’m the  _ only _ one who can room with my brother?” He wasn’t buying it. Bobby had to be fucking with him. The only thing is he didn’t know why.

“What aren’t you telling me, Dean?” Dr. Singer said harshly, his eyes piercing. “I know there is something or you would not be acting like this.”

“There’s nothing,” Dean growled. “So why don’t you drop it and show a little cooperation?”

“You’re seriously taking this attitude with me?” Bobby was incredulous. 

Dean didn’t care. He was pissed off. Either he needed to get out of the rooming with Sam arrangement, or the shrink needed to admit that his medication was fucking with his head. He hadn’t forgotten how nonchalant the man had been when he’d been drugged fucking senseless shortly after Sam came in. Everything was all ‘calm’ and ‘copacetic’, blanketing over situations that could be seriously jacked up, leading him through hell with a carefully modulated voice, trying to fool him into thinking everything was okay, was  _ normal _ .

“You’re damn right, I am,” Dean spat. “Ignoring what I’m trying to tell you - you’re getting to be just like the rest of them. Me rooming with Sammy is a mistake. But you don’t wanna listen. You’re so goddamn sure you’re  _ right _ .” His green eyes flashed and he looked a little unhinged. “And if I said that there’s something seriously screwed up with the ‘medication’ you’re feeding me, I’d be the last person you’d fucking listen to, right? I’m stuck in here, so I  _ must _ be crazy. I must have no idea what I’m talking about,  **_right?!_ ** You were just placating me when you gave me any credit or acted like you gave a shit!”

Dr. Singer was amazed at how badly this was getting under his skin. Dean was practically foaming at the mouth, and here he was wanting to meet his ranting head on. He couldn’t, of course. Couldn’t. It wasn’t professional. Oh, but this was setting him right off. Dean had no idea how many strings he’d pulled for him. To drastically alter his medication from the regimen Dr. Kubrick had prescribed, especially after the mauling of that patient was on his record, along with the near-constant fighting he’d been involved in at Stonybrook and even here, it had been a battle. It had been a risk. But he’d seen something in Dean that he wanted to save. There was something self-destructive and fragile in him, and it had been drowning in hate, hostility, and a sea of medications. That infuriating devil-may-care attitude was just a good cover for everything going on in his head. It may have fooled others, but it didn’t fool him.

Robert wracked his head for the least volatile thing he could say. Right now he really just wanted to throttle Dean. It was obvious how deeply he cared about his brother, and to be disowning it now, after everything he’d seen... to be acting like Sam was a bother and a burden... that was what was  _ crazy _ . And Dean was stubbornly claiming that nothing was amiss. “What do you mean your medications are screwed up?” he asked gruffly.

For a moment, Dean froze like a deer in headlights. Then his eyes were sliding to the side, avoiding meeting his. “I just don’t feel right,” he said, anger seeming to have evaporated. He started pacing, and it was edgy, nervous.

“I can’t fix it if you don’t give me more information, Dean.”

“Jesus,” Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Is it making your temper worse?”

“No, no,” Dean said tightly, waving the suggestion off. “Though I see why you might think that.”

“Sexual dysfunction?”

“What?” Dean said hostilely, shooting him an incredulous look. “That’s where you’re taking things?”

Dr. Singer crossed his arms. “It’s a professional guess. You could try answering the question.” Getting information out of Dean could be like pulling teeth.

The dark-haired young man sighed explosively. “It’s more the opposite. Things are working too well.” He ran his hand through his spiky hair. His eyes flicked to Bobby’s to gauge his reaction.

“And this heightened arousal has found a target?” the psychiatrist said, suddenly seeing how all of this tied together. It was about Sam, all right, just not in a way he ever would have anticipated. He wasn’t going to come right out and say anything. He was pretty sure Dean would explode in denial. “And you are worried about the outcome?” 

“Yeah,” Dean admitted quietly, his face betraying the conflict he’d apparently been housing the past week. “I thought at first it was like... stress or relief or something. Something with  _ me _ that would pass. But it  _ isn’t _ passing, and I don’t like it.” He turned cagey eyes to the psychiatrist. “It’s the medication, isn’t it?” There was a wary hope in his voice.

Dr. Singer didn’t have the heart to tell him that it probably wasn’t. “It could be.” He sighed. “Dean, I have to ask... was it necessary to go through all of that, yelling and carrying on, just because you had a hard time telling me about this?”

Dean gave him an unfriendly glare. “Sorry if I have more of a problem with this than you do.”

“Dean,” Dr. Singer sighed again, and removed his spectacles. “I have seen a lot of things. I am not so quick to judge.”

“Yeah, well I have no problem judging it,” Dean said in a rough voice. “It’s messed up. Totally, completely fucking mental. And I need you to fix it before something happens.”

“Will you cooperate with my suggestions?”

Dean looked shifty. “Maybe.”

“Ok, that’s a start. I’ll re-evaluate your medication and see where the problem may be.” He gave Dean a frank, no-nonsense look. “In all of the uproar of the last few months, have you been engaging in self-gratification?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Green eyes were uncooperative.

Robert ignored that and continued. “Part of the issue can be solved if you just make sure to do so regularly. Daily, if necessary. A drought in that arena most certainly could have a negative impact on wayward thoughts and impulse control.”

“Right. Like a need a shrink to tell me something basic like that,” he said sarcastically. “Let me write that down so I don’t forget it.”

“If you were already doing something basic like that, I wouldn’t have to be telling you this,” Robert said in irritation. “And you wouldn’t be having problems keeping your hands to yourself.” He nearly said,  _ ‘keeping your hands off of Sam,’ _ but thought better of it. He implied it with his eyes, however, and Dean looked away. “The other thing you can do is create some dissonance between you. I know you get along well, but you need to fight a little, like brothers. Be unreasonable. Piss him off. Just don’t take it so far that he feels like he’s lost his only support in this world.” 

Dean nodded glumly, looking like things were starting to sink in. “Never thought I’d be having  _ this _ conversation,” he muttered, taking a seat and hanging his head. His hands steepled in front of him.

“Now,” Dr. Singer said, “the reason I wanted to keep him isolated is because I’m afraid that someone is going to call out to you by your last name.” If that happened in front of Sam, the gig would be up. And it had not been long enough yet for him to handle something like that, or the inevitable conversation that would start regarding the accident and the death of their mother. Sam was improving, but as Dean himself had said, even a simple conversation about family had sent him skittering towards oblivion.

More than anything, Dean was terrified of losing Sam to unconsciousness once again. He was scared of doing it himself, unintentionally, just like before. The worry over being desirous of his sibling paled in the face of that.

“I just want him to stabilize a bit more. If even you are afraid of triggering an episode, how ready do you think Sam is to be brought into the fold?” Dean was still hanging his head, and was silent. “He needs his brother. You’re the only one that can give him that, even if you are lying to him about it. His subconscious probably recognizes you.”

“Doc,” Dean said, looking up at last. His mouth quirked up at the corner, the ghost of a smile. “Any chance I can get a bottle of Jack Daniels or something? I could really go for a drink.”

\---

Dean did a lot of thinking after that. What did it mean to be an older brother? For most, didn’t it involve a barrage of harassing the younger sibling, incessant teasing, and a god-given gift for being ‘right’?

He tried to imagine what would piss him off if he had been the younger sibling instead of Sam, and did his best to live up to it.

Instead of using the common showers, for instance, he now used the one in their room, and did his damnedest to use up every ounce of hot water available. This had gone on for close to a week now, and every time, Sam would shout “Dean!” in  this fucking hilarious, tight-lipped, I-can’t- _ believe _ -you! sort of way. He was starting to look forward to it.

Dean lay back on his bed, arms pillowing his head, a huge smile on his face as Sam’s pissed off voice issued from the shower. This time, Dean had left just enough hot water to fool him into thinking Dean hadn’t done it this time. “What’s the matter, Samantha?” he called out in his slightly deep voice. “Taking too long on your hair again?”

The water slammed off and Sam was soon storming out of the bathroom, towel around his waist held in a fist. Wet hair straggled about his face and dripped down his chest. His jaw was set rigidly, his mouth compressed in what only ended up looking like a 5 year old’s angry pout. “All right,” he snapped. “I know what you’re doing? And it’s enough! Okay?” He looked like he actually expected the words to have some kind of effect, and that it was an effort to hold his temper.

Dean settled back onto the bed more comfortably, feeling his mouth turn up into the amused smirk that Sam was growing to be infuriated by. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam,” he played dumb, heaving a sigh for good measure. He raised his eyebrows at his brother, looking non-plussed.

Sam’s wrathful 5-year-old look intensified. “You,” he shook his finger at Dean, looking like he wanted to do a lot more than that. “I’ll get you,” he promised in a clipped voice, shaking his head indignantly. “And you won’t like it.”

Dean just shrugged and smiled.

Sam spun on his heel and slammed back into the bathroom. It was good he was getting his strength back.

“Whatever you say, Samantha,” he called, loving how infuriated the name made his brother.

“Screw you,” Sam growled out.

The really funny thing was, Sam was particular about taking his shower in the morning, after he woke up. That was why Dean had been able to entertain himself with this for so long. He managed to wake up, use the shower and be busily looking harmless by the time Sam went to use it. And Sam refused to give in and alter his schedule. It would be letting Dean win.

This arrangement was just fine with Dean. The longer it went on, the funnier it got.

“I’ve really been missing out all these years,” he said to himself. Who knew it could be so fun to harass one’s little brother? He’d been so focused on keeping Sammy safe that he hadn’t realized his true duty as an older brother.

\---

“Aw, man,” Dean complained. “Why are you so good at checkers? I’ve been playing them since before you were born. This is so not right!”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, busily plotting his next move. “And how long is that?”

“Not important,” Dean said dismissively.

Grey eyes flicked up to his. “You sensitive about your age or something, Dean?”

“‘Course not,” Dean waved him off. He knew that taunting, unimpressed tone. Sammy was fishing for info. “I’m just not the sharing type.” He played his next move and instantly regretted it.

“Looks like you’re getting flustered to me,” Sam said with a raise of his eyebrows as he made a ridiculously good move. “Just sayin’.”

“Ah, whatever,” Dean tossed out. “Be right back. I’m gonna hit the head.”

“Uh-huh,” the younger man said, primly triumphant. “Running away now, I see.”

“Oh, shut up, Sam.” He unfolded his legs and slid off the bed. This was their 5th game in a row and he was starting to really hate checkers. It was nearly as bad with rock-paper-scissors. Sammy had always known when he was going to throw scissors.

Sam watched the door close behind Dean with a smile. He picked up the book that he had sitting on the table beside the bed and began to read. 

_ Wait for it... _

_ Wait for it... _

“Sam!” Dean bellowed. “What the hell did you do with the toilet paper?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” he called back, unable to completely suppress the laugh in his voice. “Maybe you used it all up.”

“Bullshit,” came the angry reply. “There was some in here earlier!”

“I don’t know, man, you got me,” he said, and settled more comfortably on his bed with a triumphant grin, amid a stream of curses.

\---

The library was quiet, except for a small group of residents that liked to play cards most afternoons. Nobody bothered them or told them to shut up as it was not a real library (and thus had no librarian to do the shushing), and was more of a glorified title for a sitting room with a hell of a lot of useless books on some bare bones shelving units.

“So,” Garth said to Dean as he played a card, “how is the new roommate working out? We hardly see you anymore.”

“It isn’t,” Dean growled, still in a bad mood that Sam had pulled one over on him. “He’s a pain in my ass.”

“Like, literally?” Pokey piped up, practically quivering in his seat.

Dean gave him a look that could have peeled paint off a barn door. “No, not literally, you dumb shit.” He slapped his card down on the table. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Well, Garth has a point,” Jared said, laying down a card. “We haven’t seen much of you since the vegetable princess opened her eyes. Hell, even before then.”

“Aw, you’re just pissed that your gym schedule got messed up,” Dean said, sitting back and taking a swig of a warm coke he’d won off of Pokey. “I told you I couldn’t do shit with those meds they were giving me.”

“I think you’re just getting lazy.”

“Maybe married life is making him soft,” Garnet deadpanned, laying down a card.

“Shouldn’t it be doing the opposite?” Pokey asked as he stared at the cards in his hand. “Seems to me.”

“Jesus,” Dean said in annoyance. “Do you mind?”

“Jesus...” Pokey said speculatively. “I like that name better. Go ahead and use it. I’ll answer.” He played a card.

“I’d say he’s not getting laid,” Garth announced. “From the look of him, he’s strung tighter than a gnat’s ass stretched over a rain barrel.”

“Garth!” Dean looked at him in horror. “What the fuck, man?” Garth shrugged, lips twitching up in a smile. “No way. _ I’m _ the bitch? Have you even fucking seen the other guy?” 

“I heard he’s a looker,” Jared said as Garnet responded with, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“You’re all a bunch of cocksuckers,” Dean said, picking up his cards again with a scowl. They weren’t going to be letting up anytime soon. They were having too much fun. He’d have to make them pay through the teeth with their imminent loses. “Jesus. He could be my brother or something for all you know.”

“You rang?” Pokey said. He held his fingertips to his head as if channeling a higher power. “Hmm... I see it... it’s becoming clearer. He is most definitely not your brother. Brothers should not be doing the things I see before my own startled eyes--”

“Pokey,” Dean said authoritatively, re-establishing the nickname with the finesse of a bully, a subtle threat lurking in his voice. “This is just a friendly reminder, but I know of at least three ways to make your life a living hell.” He shrugged and lifted his eyebrows with a smile as he looked at the smaller man. “Well, off the top of my head, anyway.”

“Better watch yourself when Dean goes all butch, little man,” Jared said to Pokey. “Scare-y! I was on the wrong end of that when I first got in here.”

“That’s right, and you better fucking remember it,” Dean said with a satisfied nod now that he was back in control again.

“So, Dean,” Garnet said flatly, perusing his hand of cards, “when do we meet the wife?”

\---

Sam was reading a book on law when Dean burst into the room, a dark cloud hanging almost palpably over his head. He raised his eyebrows at his roommate. “Rough day at work?”

“Oh, not you, too,” Dean groaned, throwing his jacket down onto his bed.

“What?” Sam asked calmly as he turned a page.

“Nothing,” Dean replied, flopping down onto his bed with his legs hanging over the edge.

“You lose or something?”

“Hardly. I cleaned house. Made a hundred bucks.” They didn’t usually play for cash, but Dean was feeling ruthless today, especially with the ongoing ribbing.

“And where are you planning to spend that?”

“Wherever I damn well please,” he said with annoyance. Sam had a point. How would he even spend it when he was stuck in here?

“Which is nowhere, while you’re stuck in here,” Sam had the gall to point out directly, still reading his book like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Yeah?” Dean challenged flippantly. “Maybe you could make yourself useful - batting those big, soulful eyes at the staff so they’d let you out and you could get me some alcohol or something.”

Dean felt Sam’s questioning gaze rest upon him. He didn’t meet it.

“‘Soulful?’”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean backpedaled gruffly. “Bad choice of words. Point is you look like a fucking boyscout.”

“I do not,” Sam said with irritation.

“You do so - eyes brimming with truth and sincerity and all that.”

Sam slapped his book shut. “What’s your problem, Dean? You wanna fight?”

Dean raised his head off the bed, propping up a bit on his elbows. “What, think you can take me?” he laughed as he gestured to himself.

Sam’s jaw was locking with that obstinate look. “You think I can’t?”

Dean looked him up and down as if really considering it. “Nope,” he said with a glib smile and a charming tilt of his head. 

Next thing he knew, Sam was crashing into him, his body feeling much more solid than it looked. Dean rolled them, using Sam’s momentum against him. It worked, tossing Sam onto his back, which gained Dean side control. He started to put Sam into a full mount choke hold, straddling his torso, but the younger man was not to be outdone. He thrust his hips upwards and to the side, bridging the hold and slipping out from under Dean. From there, he twined his leg with Dean’s and twisted his body, locking him into a half mount, where he attempted to entrap Dean into a submission hold. 

“Pretty good,” Dean panted, already busily planning his attack, “Samantha.”

Sam’s irritation got the best of him and gave Dean an opening, allowing him to shove his brother’s face into the mattress as he straddled his back and put him in a shoulder lock.

“Ow, Dean,” Sam ground out, his free hand fisting in the sheets near his face. From this angle, it was useless. Dean had his other arm held bent against his back, hand forced upwards towards his neck, applying pressure to the shoulder joint in a move called a hammerlock.

“Submit?” 

“No,” Sam growled, stubbornly trying to find a counter for the hold. He shifted about, his entire body tight as a bowstring between Dean’s thighs.

“Suit yourself,” Dean said offhandedly, torquing the pressure on the captive arm. “I could sit here all day.”

“Ah!” Sam gasped out in pain. Though, without context, it might have sounded like he was vocalizing pleasure instead. Dean never did know when to leave well enough alone. He tweaked Sam’s arm again, just to see if Sam’s next noise struck him the same way. It did. “Jesus, Dean, let me up already,” he groaned, face falling down onto the mattress. His breath was coming in pants. 

Dean leaned down to Sam’s ear with a smile. “Submit,” he suggested in a low voice.

Was it just him, or did he feel Sam shudder in response?

“All right,” Sam said weakly, “Just lay off the arm.”

“Your wish is my command,” Dean said with a grin, sliding off of Sam’s prone body and helping him up.

Sam rolled his shoulder experimentally, working out the stiffness, his face set in that perpetual pout that Dean was starting to really like seeing on his face. “You’re kind of a bastard, you know that?”

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser. You did well.” Dean resumed his relaxed position upon his bed, feeling in a  _ much _ better mood than before. If Sam had been in tip-top shape, he might have really had his work cut out for him. As it was, he relished his win, and the way Sam had sounded begging him for release. “Where’d you learn grappling from?”

Sam kicked Dean’s legs aside, making room for himself on the same bed. “My dad and my brother.”

“I thought you hadn’t seen them since you were 10? You trying to tell me your muscle memory is that good?”

“No. I kept up with it. Did some wrestling and Judo in middle and highschool. Kept me out of trouble.”

Dean rolled over onto his stomach, next to Sam and looked up at him. “What kind of trouble?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Bullies and stuff,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah, I can see it,” Dean said brightly. “You have hair like this back then? And that sulky look?” he teased, reaching out to tug on a lock of Sam’s hair. “Hell, I would have picked on you, too.”

Sam gave him an odd look. “They weren’t picking on me because they liked me, Dean. They were picking on me because I was weak.”

“You sure?” Dean said enigmatically as he held that grey-eyed gaze. “Sometimes it’s the same thing.” He trailed a finger over a strip of Sam’s bare stomach, where his shirt had ridden up. He didn’t exactly intend to, his hand just moved to do it without his bidding.

Sam sort of froze and didn’t respond for a minute, looking like his mind was going a mile a minute. Still their gazes remained meshed. “Yeah,” Sam said in a clipped tone, “I’m sure.”

Dean moved closer, watching Sam’s eyes react to him, and feeling it run through him. “Then maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What are you doing?” Sam said uncertainly as his personal space was violated. His stomach was trembling beneath Dean’s hand.

“Proving a point,” Dean said against his lips, eyes sliding closed. He could feel Sam’s breath coming rapidly, could taste the tension in the air. He could feel the touch of soft bangs upon his face as he toyed with brushing their lips together and more. Dr. Singer had lied. Even with daily self-gratification, his desire to do this had not lessened. He could feel the familiar, sweet tightening in his gut, and it was only increasing.

_ Dammit, Sam, push me away! _

He trailed his hand over Sam’s hip. There was a small hitch in Sam’s voice as he grabbed Dean’s wrist and said, “That’s enough,” in a rough voice.

Dean mentally thanked him from the bottom of his heart. He pulled back with a shrug and an unapologetic smile, trying to pass this off as a joke. He couldn’t help but notice his little brother’s pupils were blown wide, though his face was set in stern enough lines that he almost missed it. 

So, Sam had felt something, too.

But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t let something happen between them like this. Especially when Sammy didn’t know the truth. It wasn’t fair to him. “You know what your problem is?” Dean said in sly voice. “You’re too uptight.”

“And your problem is you don’t know when to quit,” Sam retorted, his voice deeper than normal. He slid off the bed and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Dean let himself fall back onto the bed, burying his face in the sheets. “God, Sammy, what am I supposed to do?” he groaned into them, wanting to beat his head into something good and solid until he passed out. His body was on fire. 

He wanted nothing more than to replay the last 10 minutes, but this time, push Sam down into the bed, violating his unsuspecting mouth. His mind happily supplied the feel of a hard body beneath his and the sound of panted breaths and groans - adapted from their impromptu grappling session. Desire spiked fiercely through him and he couldn’t deny it.

He was going to have to tell Sam soon. He needed his help. He wasn’t strong enough to stop this on his own. His willpower was seriously failing him and he needed Sam’s morals and purity to beat his own into place.

* * *

TBC

 

**A/N:** Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - “I Wish”**

I wish to give, to take, to make, to check, I wanna see it happen

I want to see, to be, the one that plays the game without no fears and regrets

I want to know you, better than I know myself

I want to feel the end, and to enjoy the consequence

I'm playing the game

The one that will take me to my end

I'm waiting for the rain...

To wash who I am

[x2]

I want to move, to loose, to take the grooves, and to give it all back

I want to take the time rewind, and to kick it right from the start

To be unknown and all alone, lose the kind that are behind

To start a new play by myself and to give the best I have

I'm playing the game

The one that will take me to my end

I'm waiting for the rain

To wash up who I am

[x4]

  
  



	8. Can’t Stop

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 8: Can’t Stop

When Sam experimentally cracked the bathroom door and looked out, Dean was gone.

A frown marred his face and he let out a sigh, lifting a hand to his brow to smooth away the headache that was thinking of forming. It happened sometimes when he frowned too hard; his brows pinched together and created a pressure in his skull. It’d be easier if he could just get mad sometimes instead of frowning in reaction to things. It would save him some pain.

He leaned on the door frame and tried to think.

Once again, with those green eyes swimming so close to his, he’d frozen. Body, brain, and possibly even morality. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He was just aware of the mouth that hovered before his, and the tickling warmth of breath which marked the passing moments.

He hadn’t been sure what was going to happen. Well, he  _ knew _ ... or at least he could speculate... but it was kind of unreal. First, they were fighting, tempers flaring (at least,  _ his _ was), then they were settling back comfortably and talking right after - as if that was a  _ normal _ transition to make. 

Then... then there was one of those moments where it almost sounded like Dean was hitting on him (he still wasn’t sure what to make of that). After that, time had slowed with the hand that was brushing across his stomach and with Dean’s face drifting too close.

As with other things pertaining to the green-eyed man, the signals Sam was getting were all over the place.

The guy had just been checking out what looked to be a pornographic photography book of female nudes. Then he was (possibly?) hitting on his male roommate. 

Yet when push came to shove, he didn’t quite try to bust a move.

_ Not to mention, I’ve  _ told  _ him how he reminds me of my brother... _

Or what if he _ was _ Dean? Like  _ really  _ Dean.  _ His _ Dean?

But how bizarre, such a situation... Why would he do it? Was it a joke gone too far? Was it? It had certainly seemed serious, and yet if he had been certain of that, it would have been easier to pull away. As it was, he didn’t even react until the hand on his stomach trailed over his hip, promising it wasn’t a joke at all. Just a second more and he was certain the last little gap between their lips would have closed as well. He could feel it to his core. That’s what would’ve happened if he hadn’t done something right that second. And his Dean or not, his roommate gave him that time. There was no other reason for that hesitation, right? It was like he was thinking at Sam, telling him,  _ ‘push me away’ _ . 

It had felt so serious, so weighty.

And yet, once he’d broken the hold, he’d been mocked. Laughed at. Called uptight.

It was so confusing. 

Not to mention, even with all this going on, he still couldn’t figure out whether this guy really was his brother or just a look-alike. He wasn’t even sure if he should want him to be Dean. Because how could he explain his brother hitting on him? It was kind of disturbing. And kind of...

_ (And if it isn’t  _ **_your_ ** _ Dean?)  _ a stray thought queried.  _ (How would you feel about it then?) _

When they’d been grappling, when he’d been pinned and his roommate had whispered ‘submit’ into his ear... something had happened. Something had changed, and he was overly aware of the strong body straddling his, of the quality of that deep voice, and of his body being pressed against the mattress.

“No,” he said, rubbing a quick hand over his face. A laugh fell out as he shook his head and said, “Oh, no, no.”

He turned back into the bathroom and closely consulted his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked different. The irises were thinning as his pupils swelled. He saw it in his own face, his expression, when his mind kept on its current track, replaying that scene on the bed... and the later scene on the bed.

He gripped the mirror in both hands. “No, Sam,” he said to his reflection, his voice intense. Warning. “Just. No.” 

He couldn’t be attracted to his roommate, could he?

“What the hell?!” he yelled, spinning from the mirror in disgust. “I don’t like guys.“ 

He muttered to himself, biting the tip of his thumbnail. “I  _ don’t _ swing that way. I don’t. So why-?” 

Another horrifying thought struck him, one which he was definitely less equipped to deal with than the one he was currently mulling over. Was it  _ because _ this Dean guy reminded him of his brother?

His world lurched sickly on its axis and he had to sit down. The top of the toilet was convenient and he fumbled to it, sitting and then putting his head between his knees to take a few deep breaths.

“Ok, Sammy,” he murmured. “Calm the hell down. We’ll figure this out.” 

He lifted his head again after a few minutes and rubbed his face with his hands. “It’s a brother complex,” he said experimentally. “I looked up to Dean since I was kid, then I was always looking  _ for _ him.” 

When he was 15, he’d overheard his mom on the phone once, talking to a friend about his father. It was after the fact, but that was how he learned his father had been living in a loony bin for the last few years. Something about delusions and monsters. He remembered the panic he’d felt then, his fear for his brother. Was he ok? What had happened when he and his mom left and Dad went crazy? Dean had wanted to look after their dad after the divorce, but who had been looking after  _ him _ ? 

He’d become obsessed with trying to find Dean, but his mom refused to answer his questions. She’d said only that John had always been a bit odd, but his delusions had finally beaten him and that was why she’d left him. Sam had yelled at her once, asking her how she could take him and leave Dean there if she was so worried about Dad’s delusions bringing them to harm.

_ ‘He’s got the same sickness, Sammy,’  _ she’d said.  _ ‘You have to let it go.’ _

Sam didn’t remember Dad seeming like a nut job. Sure, maybe he was teaching his sons some kind of off-the-wall stuff, but that didn’t mean necessarily that he was crazy. What if the things he was hunting were real? In that case he was teaching his family how to protect itself. On the other hand... and this was the rub... what if the things he was hunting  _ didn’t _ exist? What if Mom was right and it was all in his head? What, then, were the things he was ‘hunting’?

He took a deep breath, knowing he would not come to an answer on this in the next 5 minutes when he’d failed to discover one for years. 

His mom had known where Dean was, at least some of the time. He wasn’t sure if she kept tabs on her older son because she cared, or because she wanted to make sure Sam couldn’t find him. 

They’d hashed out this conversation many times, many ways, but generally it went like this:  _ ‘He’s been in detention centers, Sam. He has a criminal record. He’d only be a bad influence on you even if you did find him. I thought you wanted to go to college? You know the only way is if you study hard and get a scholarship; I just don’t have the money, baby, I’m sorry.’ _

Sure, he wanted to go to college. But that wasn’t the only thing he wanted.

He was sure she meant well, but... she didn’t seem to understand the gaping hole that Dean’s absence had made in his life. And to just write him off as a delinquent and a troublemaker so simply and easily... It bugged him. He’d rather find Dean and ask him personally what the deal was, what he’d done. Maybe he could slap some sense into his older brother and watch out for him the way Dean had always done for him when he was little. What Sam did  _ not  _ want to do, most of all, was give up on him. Not without a fight. Even if Dean turned out to be a bit touched in the head like their mom thought, as long as he was still  _ Dean _ , Sam wanted to be there for him.

Which brought him back to his current dilemma - possibly harboring an attraction for someone that reminded him of Dean. 

“My wires are just getting crossed,” he muttered unconvincingly. 

Again, what were the chances that he’d actually found his brother accidentally, and after all this time?  He shook his head. “Couldn’t be.”  _ Even if Dean had followed in Dad’s footsteps and been institutionalized, what were the odds he would be at the very facility  _ **_I_ ** _ got brought into?  _ It would be one helluva coincidence.

So his being drawn to this green-eyed guy... it was probably just his intense desire to see his brother again. He’d wanted so badly to have his search be at an end, that he was seeing things that weren’t there and fixating. And in his head, he was probably suffering some torqued subconscious urge to tie himself, in some way, to this person that reminded him of Dean. To reclaim that lost bond, even if it was just a proxy.

“Yeah, that has to be it.”

See? It was okay. He wasn’t harboring inappropriate feelings for his brother. He could breathe again, instead of feeling like he was on some macabre merry-go-round that was spinning faster and faster and would never stop.

* * *

The psychiatrist’s office felt like a safe harbor for Dean at the moment. It was a place where he could come clean about what was going on in his head, and a place that did not have Sam in it. He’d stayed out of dodge since the incident and did not want to come face-to-face with him so soon. He didn’t know what he should do, or what he was supposed to say.

“Dean?”

“What?” Dean stopped looking out the window and tried to focus on what Bobby was asking him.

“I said, do you feel that Sam is still as volatile as before?”

Their grappling match came to mind, and so did the feel of Sam’s body straining against his as they fought for the upper hand. He could recall every sinuous twist and every expelled breath, as well as every second he’d had Sam beneath him, held helpless in that shoulder lock.

“Uh,” he said in a rough voice, then coughed into his hand before continuing. “Yeah. He seems to be getting his energy back. I don’t know about the memories thing, though. That’s what you’re getting at, right?”

The doctor nodded. “I’m keeping what you said in mind and I plan to transition him into normal life here as soon as I think he is stable enough for it.”

Dean had a sudden disconcerting thought. Once Sammy ‘recovered’ fully, would they be taking him away? This was a mental hospital, after all. If they deemed him normal, how much longer would he even be here?

_ How much longer do I even have with you?  _ he wondered.

But if Sam was deemed normal, maybe he could put in a good word for his brother and tell them that he wasn’t crazy. Maybe they could both leave here together.

_ Though, where would I fit into that perfectly arranged life of his?  _ Between University and girlfriends... 

...and later on it would be work and maybe even a wife? Just where exactly would there be room for him in his little brother’s life? It was depressing, really. Sam was the most important thing he had in this world, but he didn’t think he would ever be Sam’s. Sam was normal, had led a more or less NORMAL life, thanks to their mom, and he would have no use for a brother who was seen as anything  _ but _ normal and who would want to hang around for more than just holidays.

But what could he do? What in the hell could he do about it?

“Dean, sit down,” Dr. Singer’s voice said sharply.

He complied automatically, too distracted to even bother being difficult. He realized his breathing was shallow, coming fast, and his hands were shaking. 

Before he knew it, a light was shining in his right eye, then his left. “What are you thinking about?” Bobby was asking him. He shook his head, strangely not able to see past the tip of his nose. All he could think about was that his ‘best case scenario’ life with Sam almost made him feel like just shooting himself. “It’s like you’re having a panic attack.” The words drifted over him, disembodied. “This isn’t like you.”

All this time, he’d been harboring some fantasy that Sam was out there somewhere, past the stone walls of the facilities he’d been kept in the past several years, and that he was happy. And maybe that he’d forgotten all about his older brother... meanwhile Dean wasted away, treasuring the memories of Sammy, content that he was not screwing things up for him by being around. That had all come crashing down when Sam had entered  _ his  _ world, as one of the mentally distressed. That bubble of safety had shattered, and suddenly it was much more than just Sam’s happiness he was worried for. 

But since Sam had woken, complications just seemed to keep piling up.

-You can’t be brothers.-

-You can’t let him remember the accident.-

-Try self-gratification to help you keep your hands to yourself.-

_ ‘You look like him. My brother Dean.’ _

Each memory and the words that had been spoken to him were hitting him like slugs, punching holes through him while he tried to keep his balance. Emotions were flashing through him like strobe lights, rendering him transparent with their blinding force. 

_ ‘I looked for him. Maybe he was just too good at not being found.’ _

The hope he’d felt when Sam mentioned his ‘brother’ Dean, even that... it was twisted and dark. Hope was colored with desperation - that he hadn’t been forgotten, that he was missed,  _ needed _ . He’d held to it, poked at it, even as he worked his way into Sam’s affections - as an outsider, a stranger - deceiving him and wondering if keeping Sam in the dark would allow him to act on the corrupted feelings he’d been finding himself drowning in. 

-Is he recovering? How has Sam’s mental state been lately?-

Guilt seared him. 

_ ‘You don’t know when to quit!’ _

Desperation paralyzed him, seeing those accusing grey eyes again, hard as flint. They merged in his head with the ones he’d seen with pupils blown, pulling him in. What was it he was trying to do, forcing this on Sam? It was too big a risk. His mind was still fragile. What if this broke him? But he couldn’t control the impulses, not completely.

_ ((You have to stop me.))  _ he thought brokenly.  _ ((I need you.)) _

He didn’t want this. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Sam. And how would Sam react if Dean let this go on and acted on the veiled desire he’d witnessed in those wide, wary eyes, only to find out later what their true connection was? How would he feel, knowing that it had been his brother? And that his brother had known it all along.

“Dean,” Dr. Singer barked out, no longer receiving any real response from the dark-haired young man. His head was lolling slightly and a stricken look was upon his face. His eyes were wide and glassy. “Dean!” 

_ ‘You’re my brother,’   _ Sam’s voice had been heart-breakingly hopeful, _ ‘Dean.’ _

_ ‘I’m Dean, but I’m  _ not _ your brother,’  _ he’d said, callously crushing that hope with lies.  _ ‘I’m just your new roommate.’   _ The way Sam’s face fell was a testament to his believable acting - a good thing - but it tore at him and he wanted to take it back.  

_ ((God help me, I need you.)) _

* * *

Sam was on guard as he moved through the facility. It was strange to be walking through these halls, seeing glimpses of others as he followed the orderly that had come to get him. They appeared, disappeared and reappeared like phantoms, behind grand doorways, through halls, or around giant brick columns that rose from the first floor to the second in the area he was in now. There was an open area in the middle, splitting the 2nd floor walkways; a sort of two story atrium that might have once been intended as a sun area. There were windows in the upper reaches near the ceiling that would have been to let light in. 

Just now, the lighting looked muddy like it was shining through dust and cobwebs, the area looked sinister, and the patients were pale ghosts in hospital grey, flickering in and out of existence.

The room he and Dean had been using was part of a main section that seemed predominantly used only on the first floor and was older and less re-worked than the rest of the place. It also had higher ceilings, more architectural uniqueness, and a main atrium on the one end of his hall with a ceiling that was two stories high, flanked by a sweeping staircase. They went up one side of the stairs and passed through a door in the massive, ornate, and intimidating wall that backed the top of them. From there, it was a short walk through closed, darkened halls before the path split around the narrow inner atrium they were passing now.

As the atrium fell behind them, the hall swallowed them up again in its dusky confines and low ceilings. There were more doors here, one of which the orderly was stopping in front of.

Sam stopped outside Dr. Singer’s door and looked around, even though he’d been doing nothing but looking this entire time. He was a little on edge. He’d essentially been ordered not to leave his quarters previously. Why was Dr. Singer wanting him to come to his office all of a sudden instead of visiting him in the room like he normally did?

“Go on in,” the orderly said.

Sam tugged at the plain, lifeless t-shirt he wore. It was, he thought, one of the articles Dean had won at cards. It was new, dark grey, and carried no significance, only it was all he could find to wear apart from the white hospital gown he was not going to be caught walking around in. The sweat pants were his own, left by the staff in case he got cold in his bed. Unlike everything else in that room that was hospital-issue, they were not white, but dark blue.

There had been what looked like a set of men’s pajamas, lightweight, cool, long-sleeved and dishwater grey, which he’d been wearing most days, but staff had collected it for laundering. He really really wanted some normal clothes to wear. Where had Dean come by the t-shirts and faded, torn jeans that he wore as a near standard uniform? He couldn’t have won them all by cards, could he? How was it that the jeans fit him so well, if that was the case? 

The other people he’d noticed mainly wore either the white of staff, or hospital issue grey. Some had plainclothes, but it didn’t seem wildly common. Maybe a t-shirt here and there with the drab grey pants. Some had tunic style hospital issue tops, or ones with short sleeves. 

Sam lifted his hand to knock, rousing himself from his musings, but he was interrupted by the orderly saying, “He’s expecting you. Just go in.”

“Sure,” he said with brevity, turning the knob.

“Dr. Singer?” he called as he stepped inside. “It’s Sam.”

“Come in,” came the curt response. 

The psychiatrist was standing by the window, the light bright upon him compared to the dimness of the rest of the room. Sam almost didn’t notice the small couch on the far right of the room, across from the desk, or that it was occupied.

Sam felt a rush of anxiety for some reason as he recognized his roommate’s familiar form, reclining upon it like a discarded doll, eyes staring sightlessly. “Dean?”  He moved across the room quickly, crouching down beside him before he even registered a thought to do so. “Dean, can you hear me?” he knew instinctively that something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. All he could think is that it freaked him out, seeing the spiky-haired man looking so lifeless and devoid of the very things that made him  _ him _ . “Dean!” He took strong shoulders in his hands and shook them, staring intently at the face before him, willing it to register a response.

Dean’s eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly. Green eyes slid slowly over to meet his. “Heya, Samm-” his flat voice dropped out and he looked down. 

“What’s the matter, Dean?” he persisted. “Hey, look at me, man.” It was disturbing, this change in behavior. Where was that smart-aleck mouth of his? Where were the endless string of half smiles and smirks that flitted over his face, easy as breathing?

Since when was his roommate capable of staring him in the eye with such gravity? He felt his brows drawing together, worry marking them as he stared back. “You okay?” he asked.

Dean moved then, brushing his hands away, and sitting up. “When’d you crawl out of the woodwork?” he said, not looking at Sam and running a hand through his hair. A smile tried to twitch to life at the corner of his mouth but died before actualizing. 

Sam frowned, feeling suddenly out of place for kneeling on the floor and being worried about someone he barely knew anything about. He rose to his feet, suddenly awkward. Unimpressed green eyes slanted back to him and dark brows twitched upward, blandly questioning his presence. 

Tension fizzled through him as he remembered Dean cornering him so closely, trying to get a rise out of him. Sam felt  _ stupid _ for feeling anything for him. He let that show in his face, and he swore Dean’s eyes changed in response.

“You’ll have to excuse him, Sam,” Dr. Singer said levelly, coming over to stand beside him. He shot Dean an odd look that was marked with disapproval. “He was having a panic attack. He’s out of sorts.”

Shock flashed through him.  _ I brought him out of a panic attack? _

“Is... That isn’t why you called me here, is it?” Sam glanced between the doctor and Dean. A panic attack would explain that strange stillness and oddness Dean was exhibiting, but it wouldn’t explain why  _ he _ had been called in... The doctor wouldn’t have been calling  _ him _ in  _ personally _ to snap Dean out of it, could he?

“Don’t be stupid,” Dean said, rising to his feet.

“You sit back down, boy,” Dr. Singer said before Sam even had a moment to get irritated at the insult.

Dean sat. Or lost his balance. It was hard to tell.

“What’s going on between you two?” the psychiatrist asked.

Sam froze and felt his face heat for some reason, which embarrassed him.

“Nothing, Bobby,” Dean said stiffly. “Everything’s peachy.”

“Right, and I’m the Queen of Sheeba,” Bobby said, his eyes looking like they wanted to roll with sarcasm. “Is it the rooming situation?” He took off his spectacles. “I thought you boys were getting along.”

Sam glanced quickly at Dean from the corner of his eye. If looks could kill, Bobby might well have taken a few shots to the head from the intensity in Dean’s eyes. He looked pissed. “So, what, you thought a little group therapy couldn’t hurt, might help?”

Sam felt the rising tension. Maybe he should just bail. “Look, if you guys have an axe to grind,” he started to say, pointing his way to the door.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean said, eyes locked on Singer, his voice sounding very much like an adult telling a child to sit still and not move until told otherwise. His brother used to do that to him. Sam sat in a nearby chair and tried not to fidget. He didn’t like the tone of this.

“Are we doing this now, Bobby?” Dean’s voice was gruff. “Is that what you’ve decided?”

“No, it isn’t.”

Sam looked back and forth between them. They were staring at each other hard, a battle of wills. Dean’s eyes were flicking, searching Dr. Singer’s face before his glare started to settle back down into something more civilized.

“My purpose in calling you both here is that I need to assess whether sharing a room is seriously detrimental to either of you in any way. This is a routine assessment.”

“Detrimental how?” Sam asked. He was still upset with Dean, but the doctor seemed to be hinting that their room assignments could change. The thought made him feel discomfited. He glanced at Dean again and was surprised to see something that looked like panic flash in his eyes, visible when their gazes crossed accidentally.

“Well,” Dr. Singer said, pulling a chair over and sitting down with them like they were having some kind of marriage counseling. “Anything that is making anyone feel unstable, or like their symptoms are worsening. Any extreme discord.”

Dean was surprisingly quiet, so Sam picked up the slack. “No, I don’t think so.”

Bobby looked at him. “Any headaches? Head pressure? Flashes of past events?”

“Well, not exactly,” Sam said. There had been a few times where certain topics surfaced, and it had thrown him into a tailspin, but it seemed to be lessening. He’d been preoccupied with Dean, mostly, and it had been a good distraction. He shrugged and decided to go ahead and voice the thought. It could be that Dean was acting weird because of what happened earlier. He guessed he could cut him some slack. It was an easy enough way to say that he wasn’t still mad at him over it or anything. “I think having Dean around has been good for me.” 

For some reason, he felt like he was saying something a lot more meaningful than what it was intended to be. He felt Dean’s intense eyes on him. He wanted to look, but couldn’t. “I’m ok with the living arrangement as long as he is,” Sam added, sounding lame to his own ears.

“And you, Dean? Do you assent in continuing the arrangement?” 

“Yeah, sure,” he said quietly.

Sam snuck a glance at him then, and noted that he looked relieved. He turned to Bobby. “Hey, uh... since this is my first time venturing out of that room, could I possibly get some real food? Maybe look around the place?”

“That... could be arranged,” Bobby said, looking like he wanted to say ‘no’.

“Have you eaten yet?” Sam asked Dean. He tried to be casual as he threw Dean a bone, offering to make up. He sort of missed the easy bantering that they usually had going on at any given time.

Dean’s eyes flicked to Bobby and then back to Sam. “I’ll take a rain-check. Promised Jared I’d spot him at the gym and all.”

“Oh.” Sam tried not to sound disappointed. “Okay. Sure.” It wasn’t surprising that the green-eyed man might have buddies here.  _ I’ll make acquaintances, too, I just haven’t met anyone yet.  _ Still, there was a sting of jealousy pricking him, though he wasn’t sure if it was of Dean, having freedom and all, or  _ over _ Dean. Within the confines of their room, it was like they were the only two souls in the world and now, all of a sudden, there were people like this Jared guy that knew him.

Dr. Singer tapped his pen against his hand and made a mental note to make sure they went to the cafeteria at a time where it would be largely empty. He was concerned that other residents might disrupt the fabrications they’d lain on Sam. And especially if Dean and Sam were together. All it would take is one _ ‘Hey, Winchester!’ _ and it would be all over. It was inevitable, but if they were careful, they could keep things under wraps a bit longer. 

A tour of the facility would be difficult as well, but maybe he could arrange for an excursion outside. That carried less risk, and a little sun would be a good thing. Afterwards, he could see how soon it might work to move Sam and Dean’s room assignment into the regular residential area, though that would probably have to wait until Sam found out the truth about Dean.

* * *

Dean escaped the office and headed down the hall, feeling lucky to have survived. He’d been talking to Bobby and his thoughts about Sam had run away with him, going haywire. Next thing he knew, he had a concerned Sam staring him in the face and it was almost more than he could take.

Bobby said he’d been having a panic attack - he must’ve called Sam in to snap him out of it. And it  _ had _ , but...

He’d been ready to tear Bobby’s throat out when he thought that the man was going to reveal their secret. He wanted to tell Sam and all, but the timing was horrible. He didn’t want it coming out while they were still at odds over that near kiss. Or having it come to light over a stupid panic attack that he had been having, that revolved around Sam’s monumental importance in his life. 

He wanted to make sure they were on firm ground first. 

The truth could come after that, in all its scathing glory.

The only good thing that had come out of all of this is that Sam didn’t seem to be as pissed at him as he thought. Well, not only that. Hearing Sam say,  _ ‘I think having Dean around has been good for me,’ _ had had a profound affect on him. It was like hearing his brother invalidate a large and ugly fear he’d been holding onto for some time now. And that Sam would say that, even after all the questionable behavior Dean had been subjecting him to...

It was a relief. A relief so huge he was almost afraid to believe in it.

He  _ hadn’t _ been fucking everything up beyond belief.

They were still ok.

* * *

Their room was empty when Dean returned there from his workout.

_Huh. Must’ve gotten something of a tour after all..._ he thought as he began to strip off his sweaty clothes. He knew Bobby was concerned that someone would say ‘Winchester’ anywhere in Sam’s vicinity. Truth be told, so was he. But they couldn’t keep Sam in the dark forever. And it wasn’t fair to expect his patience to be indefinite. He’d stayed cooped up in this room for long enough. Dean certainly wouldn’t have lasted as long.

He dropped his shirt and pants on the floor, kicking them into an out of the way spot, to be dealt with later.  _ But for now, a well-earned shower.  _ Sliding off his boxers, he tossed them on top as he opened the bathroom door. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

The first thing he registered was the steam.

The second thing he registered was that while the shower was no longer running, there was most certainly someone inside. He froze. “Hello?” Sam’s slightly deep voice said with a tense undertone.

_ Shit! _

The fact that he was completely naked was about to be a serious fucking problem. 

What in the hell was Sam doing showering in the evening, anyway?

He looked around frantically for something to cover up with, not keen on being seen in the buff. Not like this, when he’d made a stupid tactical error. Sam’s hand was reaching up to pull the curtain aside.  _ No, the towel would be weird, especially if Sam had noticed it hanging there when he came in.  _ He’d figure it out - that Dean had come into the room in his full glory. It had to be the boxers, and a prompt exodus from the room. Otherwise he was going to have a helluva lot more explaining to do and this was not going to look nearly as innocent as it was. He didn’t need to add to his already stellar track record of nearly jumping Sam by making Sam think he was going to accost him in the shower or something. He carefully turned the doorknob, trying not to make a sound as he MacGyver’d his way out.

“Dean? That you?”

“No,” he said automatically, wincing as he was caught mid escape. “I mean, yeah. Uh, sorry, man, I didn’t mean to walk in on you. I just thought you were still out and all and I was gonna grab a post-workout shower...”  _ Oh my god, I’m babbling.  _ He was literally halfway out the door, feeling a breeze on lower parts of his anatomy, his feet inconceivably frozen in place, and he was fucking  _ babbling _ .

“Oh, well, shower’s free,” Sam said, then the curtain was sliding back.

Dean almost had a coronary right there.

Instinct must have prevailed, because in less than a second flat, he ducked back through the doorway and practically dove back into his boxers, heart slamming in his chest.  _ Was he seriously getting out of the shower naked, knowing I was in there?? _ he wondered, curbing the urge to check.  _ What the hell? Who does that? _

“Dean?” Sam said, poking his head out from the bathroom as Dean scrambled to assume a natural looking pose leaning with his arm against the wall and his other hand on his hip. 

“Yeah?” he said with a shake of his head and a rueful smile, trying to act like nothing was up. He lifted his eyebrows expectantly. He probably looked like an utter tool. How is one supposed to look natural wearing nothing but boxers and a smile?

Sam gave him an assessing look. “You okay?”

“Hm?” Dean noted that Sam had a towel wrapped around his waist. Maybe he’d had it with him inside the shower. Dean was momentarily distracted by some of the water droplets sliding down his torso.  _ Damn he has some ab muscles for not working out in 2 months.  _ “Uh, yeah, fine,” he said, shaking his head with a small laugh, swinging his eyes up to Sam’s. “I’m fine.” He shrugged off the weird peering look Sam was giving him with a nervous twitch that manifested as a wink. 

“You’re sure?” Sam asked slowly, nodding at him slightly as he kept those assessing eyes fixed upon him. 

Dean realized suddenly that his pose might be mistaken for something solicitous, that his arm resting against the wall over his head, and his ‘casual’ leaning was mimicking a classic guy move of trying to show one’s body off to entice their sexual target. The smile was not helping him out here. He coughed, quickly retracted his arm and rolled his shoulder like he was working out a kink in it. “Yeah. Yup. Just want to, ah,” he nodded to the door, “take that shower.”

“Sure. Right,” Sam said, moving out of the way; meanwhile, Dean headed through the door too fast. “Um.” Between the two of them, one doorway was not nearly big enough, and there was an awkward up-close-and-personal shuffling. Sam moved to one side to slide around him, and Dean mistakenly also moved to that side as well. He tried to correct it, instantly going the other way, but so did Sam, eyes meeting his in surprise. Rinse, repeat. 

“Ah,” Sam laughed awkwardly, scrunching his nose a little as he shook his head with a laugh and shrugged.

It was cute, Dean thought, and he wanted to press his lips to the embarrassed smile that fluttered upon Sam’s mouth.

If he was honest with himself, he also wanted to pin Sam up against the door frame. 

He wouldn’t have minded feeling for himself how in shape Sam had kept his body over the years. His hands were itching to touch. And yeah, he even wanted to drag that towel out of Sam’s grip.

“So, um, how about that shower?” Sam said, looking a little flustered. He licked his lips, a nervous gesture.

“Hardly seems fair for you to grab another one,” Dean said with a raised brow, as if Sam had meant they shower together. His voice dropped suggestively. “I know sharing’s a virtue and all, but then I won’t have _ any _ hot water left.” When Sam looked flustered like this, he couldn’t resist the urge to tease him. The effect was immediate. 

“Wh- No, I didn’t...” Sam stammered, coloring slightly. Dean could feel his mouth quirking up at the edges as he floundered. “That is  _ not _ what I meant!” he concluded indignantly.

“Of  _ course  _ not,” Dean said with a smile and a nod, clapping his hand on Sam’s bare shoulder in a patronizing fashion before moving past him into the bathroom.

* * *

TBC

 

**A/N:** Chapter title from:

 

**Infected Mushroom - “Can’t Stop”**

And i cant stop thinking about moments that i lost for you.

and i cant stop thinking about things i used to do.

and i cant stop making bad decisions

and i cant stop eating stuff you make chew

i put on a smile that you wann'a see

another day goes by that i loan to be like you.

[x2]

and i cant stop making bad decisions

and i cant stop eating stuff you make chew

i put on a smile that you wann'a see

another day goes by that i loan to be like you.

and i cant stop , cant stop... making

cant stop, cant stop

cant stop, cant stop shaking

cant stop, cant stop,

cant stop

[x100]

And i cant stop thinking about moments that i lost for you.

and i cant stop thinking about things i used to do.

and i cant stop making bad decisions

and i cant stop eating stuff you make chew

i put on a smile that you wann'a see

another day goes by that i loan to be like you.

i want to be like you.

[x2]

and i cant stop , cant stop... making

cant stop, cant stop

cant stop, cant stop shaking

cant stop cant stop,

and i cant stoppppp


	9. Smashing the Opponent

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 9: Smashing the Opponent

Sam fidgeted as Dean took his shower. He was all out of sorts, and he couldn’t seem to get the look of those olive green eyes out of his head. He could recall, in detail, every little fleck or color variation, and the stunning clarity and warmth of them as he was teased. 

And then... there was how his own eyes drifted down, drawn like a magnet to the smiling quirk of full lips, and he’d caught himself wondering what they’d feel like if he touched them. With fingertips, or with his own lips. 

And that scenario played out in his head - he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Dean’s, feeling those soft, sarcastic lips give beneath his... and feeling them part...

Sam broke out in a sweat and struck the the errant thoughts from his head with a will.  _ No, not this again. _

He could nearly feel the heat of that mouth... and feel the sinuous curl of a tongue sliding against his as Dean pressed him into the door frame.

“No!” he whispered harshly. His mind was rebelling against him. His breath was shallow, fast. His heart was racing. “This isn’t right.” The object of his thoughts was in the next room... nothing upon his body but water. 

Desire shivered through him.

Sam flopped back onto his bed, hands over his eyes like he could blot out the reality of losing his mind. 

Because he had to be. He had to be around the freaking bend to be having thoughts like these.

“Okay, take it easy,” he muttered. “Think.” He just needed a distraction. It wasn’t like he thought these things all the time. Usually it seemed to coincide with being within 2 feet of Dean or looking directly into his eyes. If he could just avoid that sort of thing for a bit, maybe this would go away. 

...and he needed to never contemplate Dean in less than full attire. 

Sam willfully thought of anything but Dean in the shower, making an exercise of it, one which trained his mind and body away from such dangerous ground. He traced the walls with his mind, every corner of this white room, every crack or bump, until he had something of a 3-D model in his head. He then took a look outside his ‘model’, outside the window, and grounded it in a location. He could see grass, trees.... actually, it was a shit-ton of trees, all around the building, a whole grove of them. He wondered if that was how the place got its name, Oak Grove. Then there was the 2 lane road that looped past, its asphalt so old it was bleached nearly white in the sun. On the one end, it disappeared around a bend, on into some mountainous terrain. On the other end, it just went on and on into the rolling landscape. There was no real traffic on it, though he could see one car. It was black and looked familiar as it approached.  _ Strange _ , he thought,  _ it kind of looks like Dad’s old Impala. _

“Sam,” Dean’s irritated voice shot through his reverie. “Did you take one of my shirts?”

Sam sat up, thoroughly disoriented. “Huh? What shirt?”

“The dark grey one. You were wearing it earlier. It was mine, wasn’t it?”

“Uh... yeah. Guess it was.”

“And the one you got on now?”

“...yeah. It’s yours.”

Sam thought he heard a muttered curse. Dean was leaning over a drawer, tapping his finger on the top of the dresser. He was wearing a pair of the hospital issue pants and no shirt.

His body looked just like Sam remembered it from just a little while earlier. It looked just as smoothly muscled and compelling as before. He tried to make himself look away.

“Well, thanks to you, I’ve got nothing to wear.” Dean turned to him, a calculating look in his eyes. 

“What?”

“Now that you’ve warmed it up for me, I think I’ll be having my shirt back now. ‘Sides, green’s not your color.”

“But what will  **I** wear?”

“You should have some standard issue stuff laying around.” Dean’s eyes were fixed as he moved towards Sam. It was clear he wasn’t giving up on his shirt without a fight. 

“Well, then, so should you!” Sam got into a defensive position, tucking his legs under him and holding his fists up. 

Dean was stalking around the side of the bed. “Nope, gave all of it away except for a few of the pants.”

“They have all my stuff in laundry,” Sam shot out.

“Yeah, well maybe you should have thought about that before blowing through two of my shirts, princess. I have to wash my own stuff by hand. I’m no Sally homemaker here. I don’t like it, but those are the rules, so I got no choice.”

_Oh, so that explains why people mostly didn’t wear plainclothes,_ Sam thought. It was probably much easier for most to wear the hospital’s garments and have them laundered for them.

Dean grabbed Sam’s wrists, taking him by surprise. “We can do this the easy way,” he said ominously, voice low, “or the hard way.” 

Sam’s heart was beating in his throat. This was violating both rules he’d set for himself regarding Dean not 5 minutes ago: the proximity rule and the eyes rule, and already he was fighting his reaction to it. 

“You really want it back after I was already wearing it?” He averted his eyes, but was met with an up close and personal view of Dean’s well-defined upper body and chest. ‘Sculpted’ came to mind, though it was tasteful and still looked natural. Problem was, Sam was becoming more than overly aware of a tiny detail such as seeing his nipples, and it was embarrassing the hell out of him just now. The term half-naked was really appropriate and his mind was running rampant with the ‘naked’ aspect of the word.

Dean wasn’t responding, and Sam was afraid to meet his gaze. Anyway, he needed a diversion from the heat he could feel in his face. “Okay, I’ll take it off,” he said, pulling at his wrists. “Just let go.”

He felt Dean’s hands slowly release his arms, trailing down them slightly. The air felt heavy and charged. He started to pull the shirt up and was surprised as hell when Dean said, “Never mind, keep it,” in a roughened voice and lips brushed his.

It was such a light touch, and yet it ripped through him with voracity. His brain stuttered and could not get past the fact that Dean had just technically kissed him... 

...and was still...

Soft, firm lips were moving against his, sharpening the ache behind his belly button, and causing his face to flush thoroughly. The tiny, exploring flick of a tongue against his lower lip, and the heat of Dean’s mouth opening against his nearly undid him. He wanted this so badly, but wasn’t even sure what ‘this’  _ was _ . He only knew that he wasn’t supposed to want it. He only knew he was supposed to fight it - this feeling that was stealing his breath as slick heat slid between his lips and he tasted Dean for the first time.

He ached.

Burned.

He reached up to feel spiky hair beneath his fingers, sliding his hands through it, and Dean was pushing him down onto the bed.

_ Yes,  _ he thought, heart lodged like a lump in his throat.

A moment later, Dean broke the kiss and was pulling back, hands still pressing Sam down. “No,” he said under his breath. He muttered something else, but it was too faint to make out.   

_ No? _ Sam was confused. “Dean? What is it?” Dean was not meeting his eyes, and the hands on his shoulders almost felt like they were shaking.

“I’m sorry,” his roommate said in a strange voice before slipping off the bed. Dean grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the room.

“Dean?” Sam called after him, hopping off of the bed himself. “Dean!”

* * *

Dean ran down the hall, trying to outrun himself and the gravity of what he’d just done... and what he’d almost given into. He felt utterly panicked, aggrieved, self-deprecating. Violent.

He’d just crossed the line.

He’d been trying so desperately not to. It had been close, a few times, but he’d always managed to scrape by. But now he’d gone and made that transgression against his brother, his poor, unsuspecting brother.... 

His eyes burned and anger at himself boiled in his veins. He wanted to slit his wrists. Or drink himself into harsh oblivion. Something. Anything to take over what he was feeling right now.

Anything to quiet the lust still pumping in his veins, and make himself pay for it being there in the first place.

“Hey, Winchester,” someone called out. “You can’t go around dressed like that.”

Dean turned blazing eyes upon the speaker. It was an orderly. “Like what, Fred?” he asked with an aggressive smile, flipping his jacket open further. He was getting the urge to make a scene. To fight. “Maybe I ran out of clothes.”

Fred the orderly said, “No problem. Hang tight and I’ll find you something.”

Dean stood there, watching his red hair bob down the hall and felt both disappointed and relieved. Fred didn’t seem up for a fight, or maybe he was sensing the atmosphere and figured he didn’t want to be involved. Dean didn’t blame him. He was in a shit mood and Fred probably didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of it anyway. 

On the other hand, Dean was feeling less than patient at the moment. He turned on his heel and headed deeper into the facility. He had to spend this frustration somewhere.

_ Maybe I should try getting underground?  _ He was in a perfectly reckless mood for breaking in down there, seeing the tunnels and rooms and getting some answers. The only thing was, his salt shaker was empty. Not to mention, if he did encounter something while in a mood like this... Dad would beat the shit out of him for going into a situation without his head screwed on straight. 

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Zippo lighter he’d won off of Garnet. As far as he knew, the kid didn’t smoke, so it was a mystery as to why he’d even had one. He flicked it open and watched the flame burn bright. He passed his fingers through it, savoring the burn as it licked at them. He wanted a smoke, but they were back in the room. He wanted something sharp to cut himself with, but he pretty much knew that he wouldn’t find something like that anywhere. He’d settle for a drink, but the only bastard he knew with any alcohol was Pokey. And maybe Jared. He was seriously low on options here.

“You’re sinking to new lows, Winchester,” a self-satisfied voice said cryptically.

Anger flared in response to the gloating form of Gordon as he morphed out of the shadows. “And what lows are those, you crazy bastard?”

“Oh, there  **is** the public indecency,” he gestured to Dean’s shirtless torso under his jacket. “But then there is playing with fire.” His tone was all-knowing. “How does it feel? Give you a rush?”

Dean leered and held the flame out to the dark-skinned man. “I’d be more than happy to let you try it out for yourself.”  _ I’ll set your stupid ass on fire. _

Gordon smiled, strolling around to his left, making Dean turn. “Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean the  _ real _ fire you’re playing with. Poor little Sammy Winchester... boy, do you have him fooled.”

Dean felt his blood run cold. “What are you talking about?”

“See, I always knew you were crazy, Dean.” He laughed. “That much is obvious.” He continued his circling, and his eyes were steady, banked with volatile aggression. “But I never even...” he painted the air with his hands, grin growing, “ _ imagined _ ... what a sick fuck you’d turn out to be.” He shook his head, amused. “You see, I hear things from folks. I hear quite a lot of things. Seems like we weren’t the only ones who didn’t know you were brothers. Seems like Sammy doesn’t know boo, either. Not unless he likes the the thought of taking it up the ass, which is bad enough, but from his own brother?” 

Gordon  _ tsked _ at him and he felt white hot rage.

“Sam’s not like that,” he said through clenched teeth. How in the fuck was Gordon getting his intel? Did he have people stationed outside their room or what?!

“Like what? A perverted freak like you?”

“Keep talking, Gordon, you might even get to see what I’m like when I’m angry.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. You’ve had a solid grip on your temper ever since Sam came along. Are you trying to impress your sweetheart? Or did they tell you it’s the only way you’d be allowed to see him?”

Rage was flicking behind Dean’s eyes. He was seeing red. Black. Red. Gordon may have been right in that he’d been taking pains to rein in his temper, but he was going too fucking far talking about Sam like this. He was pushing Dean’s buttons, and he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Like a kid playing with a hot stove, turning knobs and getting drawn in by the glow of hot coils.

“So, when are you going to tell him, Dean? Before or  _ after  _ you fuck him?”

Self-control snapped and Dean’s waking mind took a holiday. Fury was a blinding light, white hot, and it was only through his fists pummeling flesh and bone, and through the tilt of his own body that he knew he had Gordon down on the ground and was beating the shit out of him. His hands felt warm. Sticky.

He had the passing thought that he shouldn’t take things too far, that he should let up at some point and try not to kill the guy outright, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. All the pent up anger at Gordon, all the helplessness and self-loathing he’d felt in the situation with Sam... hell, even being in this place... it poured through him, finally finding an outlet. His blood sang as he rendered Gordon speechless and spitting blood. Things were cracking and crunching from time to time beneath his hands. A nose? A rib? He wasn’t properly sure and didn’t care.

Doing this felt right.

It felt fucking right, and he knew he was justified. This was for all the shit Gordon Walker had given him practically since coming here, and this was for all the things he’d said or implied about Sam. This was for him sticking his nose into other people’s business just one goddamn time too many.  

“Holy shit!”

Dean registered an intruder upon his private conversation with Gordon. But he wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t nearly finished here. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifting his lolling head off of the ground. His face was a mess. Blood was everywhere. Probably all over him, too. Dean felt nothing looking at him. Nothing except maybe some urgency not to get caught after he’d finished what he’d started. If he hit the nasal bone just right, he could shove it through Gordon’s rotten, worthless brain. He’d never tried it before, just heard that it could be done, but it was worth a shot.

Something solid connected with the side of Dean’s head and he was knocked to the side, losing his grip on his opponent. His head spun a bit, the blow landing near his temple, and when he started to recover, he realized his arms were being restrained from behind.

He snarled, dropping his body low and twisting, offsetting the restrainer’s balance. He grabbed a fistful of their shirt at their shoulder with his left hand, and their left arm with his right as it became free, then tossed them over his shoulder with a one-armed shoulder throw. It was a sloppy  _ Ippon Seoinage _ , given the circumstances, but it had the interloper on his back and it was easy to transition his caught left arm into a nasty armlock. All he’d have to do now is twist it a little this way or that way and it would be hurting like a motherfucker as it tore up the shoulder or elbow joint.

“Dean, it’s me,” his downed attacker panted. “Stop. Please.”

If Dean hadn’t felt his world warp before, it sure was warping now. He recognized the green shirt first - his own. Then it was Sam’s strained face that swam into view, bringing with it a swarm of overwhelming feelings.

Surprise, but then shame, remorse, and fear. All of a sudden, it was like his conscience had just bitch-slapped him in the face. With an anvil. He glanced at himself, the arms of his jacket, spattered red, and then Gordon’s still form several feet away. “What are you doing here?” he heard himself ask. His voice sounded cold and empty, even to his own ears. He hadn’t released Sam’s arm. His brother was wincing at the pressure held upon it.

_ Jesus Christ, what am I doing? _

Sense was filtering back in. If anyone were to find out what he’d done...

“Dean, let me go. We can talk about this.” Grey eyes were talking him down like a wild animal. A violent, frenzied animal. “I had to stop you. You didn’t want to kill him, you just got carried away.”

_ You’re wrong, _ he thought, staring back at the most precious thing he had in this world.  _ I wanted to. _

_ ((Just like you wanted to do more than just kiss Sam,)) _ some part of him whispered.  _ ((Only he didn’t know he should stop you.))  _

_ ((You can barely control yourself without his help. How pathetic.)) _

“C’mon, Dean, someone is bound to come by any second,” Sam reasoned with him, still on the ground under Dean’s hold. “Do you want them to find you like this?”

He knew Sam was right, but his fingers were sticking to him like they were glued to his flesh. He liked the look of Sam’s discomfort, his tousled hair, and his pleading eyes. He wondered if this was the closest he would ever be to his brother again.

Shame coursed through him again, and disgust at his own disturbing thoughts. He made his hands loosen and Sam slipped from his grasp.

Suddenly, the sight of Gordon made him sick. His stomach lurched and the smell of iron was filling his nostrils.

Good god, were those teeth he saw on the floor?

“Dean, c’mon,” Sam was tugging at his arm. He noticed Sam was doing his absolute best not to look at Gordon. His face was pale.

Dean let himself be led into one of the many halls that branched out from that main intersection. His feet were leaden. His thoughts were just as heavy. Why was Sam even bothering with him right now, after what he’d just seen? Dean felt tarnished, soiled, and in danger of contaminating Sam with it. He couldn’t let that happen. He  _ couldn’t _ . It would eat away at the light of him, starting with Sam’s hand that was wrapped so tightly about his wrist, crawling up his brother’s arm and burning away his innocence and morals until he wasn’t even himself anymore.

“Here,” Sam said, opening a door and ushering him in. It was the public locker room and showers. “Now strip.”

Dean gave him a look like he was crazy.

Sam met his eyes with that obstinate look. “You’re covered in bloo--” he broke off, eyes flicking away. “You look a mess and we’d never make it back to our room without being seen. You need to clean up.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asked flatly. “You saw what I did to him.” He lifted his arms out. “This is his  _ blood _ . What justification could I possibly have to give you that would make this all right?”

“Just shut up, okay?” Sam snapped. “I don’t  _ know _ . Just wash it off of you already.”

Dean took off his jacket, laying it aside on one of the wooden benches. The hospital issue pants he was wearing were flecked with blood. He took them off and laid them beside the jacket. He might have hesitated over removing his boxers, but then again, he  _ had _ just been ordered to strip and shower, and he didn’t have much fight left in him. So what if Sam saw him nude? It didn’t matter. If he liked what he saw, Gordon was a stellar example of why not to get close. And if he was revolted, then all the better. That was how things should be.

He shouldn’t know things like how Sam’s mouth felt against his. He shouldn’t have ever known fierce desire like that. He shouldn’t have ever known how good Sam tasted...

Dean turned on the shower and winced as it spat out cold water at first.  _ And here my poor, sweet brother doesn’t even know who I am. He thinks he’s taking care of the resident neighborhood psycho. He thinks he’s dealing with this pretty well, yet he’s struggling and it’s only the tip of the iceberg. _

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sam pick up his leather jacket and spread it over his knees as he sat, wiping it down with a wet paper towel. There was a scowl upon his face.

Dean scrubbed at his skin and watched Sam work.

After several moments, Sam glanced up at him and his expression darkened. “You know,” he said in a terse voice, “the greater part of me is wondering why running out and doing  _ this _ was preferable to staying in the room with me.”

_ Modest, even now? You want to know why I couldn’t just sleep with you? Is that what you think you want? _

“Because that can’t happen,” he said through gritted teeth, focusing on the ugly tile before him. “Just trust me on this.”

Sam laughed humorlessly. “Oh that’s rich, coming from you,” he said, flipping the jacket and working on the other sleeve. The wet paper towel in his hands was more red than pink. “You just spazzed out and beat some guy nearly to death and you think I should trust in your judgment?”

“Yes.”

“God,” Sam muttered under his breath angrily. “...fucking crazy.”

“Watch your mouth,” Dean said sharply. He may have admitted as much to himself, but he wasn’t ready to hear something like that out of Sam.

“Or what, I’ll end up like him?” Sam said sarcastically, bent over his task.

“Maybe,” Dean said menacingly, slamming his hand upon the shower lever, shutting it off. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Then why are you taking the effort to warn me?” he countered, unimpressed.

That snotty tone was pissing Dean off. He got out of the shower area, dripping water across the floor as he walked. Why didn’t Sam know when to quit?  _ Why does he trust me at all?  _ Because that was what this sort of behavior meant - Sam fucking  _ trusted _ him.

He snapped his jacket up out of Sam’s hands with a dark look. “Because maybe I do things sometimes that even  **_I_ ** regret,” he said acidly. “And Gordon back there wasn’t one of them.”

He shrugged back into his jacket and pulled on his boxers and his pants, turned inside-out so as to be less obviously redecorated, then left.

* * *

Sam sat, unmoving, for a long time. The shower was still dripping from where Dean had been showering not long ago.

He picked up the patient shirt he’d been carrying and slammed it into the garbage can angrily. He’d gotten it from an orderly named Fred, whom he’d crossed paths with in the hall. He had been going to give it to his roommate, but never even got the chance.

He looked down at his arms. They were smeared red from where Dean’s hands had touched him. He went to the sink and scrubbed at them fiercely, replacing the red of blood with the red of raw skin. The water ran pink for a long time.

* * *

“All right, Lewis,” Dean said stonily, cornering Pokey in his room, “hand over your stash.” 

“D-Dean, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the smaller man said, holding his hands up. He smiled nervously. “H-Hey, did you know your pants were on inside out?” He laughed a little, eyes darting around like he was trying to figure out how to escape. “What’d you do, get a little action and make a hasty retreat?”

Dean rushed him, slamming him into the wall next to his bed. “You say one more fucking smart-ass thing, and you will fucking regret it. Now where is your goddamn stash? Don’t play coy with me, Lewis, I will  _ end  _ you.”

Lewis winced against the new discomfort in his shoulder. He didn’t find himself enamoured of pushing his luck. “Damn, you sound so serious when you say my real name,” he muttered to himself. “I have a bottle of Scotch in the ceiling.”

Green eyes flicked to the ceiling tiles and then back to him. “Where?”

“You mind letting me go first?”

“Yes, I do. You’re a weasel.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, my frie--”

The door opened behind them and Garnet walked in. “Lover’s spat?” he said blandly, not overly concerned for his roommate’s safety, or his own for that matter or he wouldn’t be mouthing off like that. It was hard to tell though whether he was suggesting the spat was with Pokey or with Sam. The running jokes about Dean’s roommate had been less than funny to him.

“Garnet,” Dean growled, not in the mood for either.

The black-haired youth shrugged. He reached into the closet, his hair was like a curtain when unbound like it was now, and pulled out a bottle from a high shelf. “Here,” he said, walking over and holding it out to Dean. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

Pokey strained to see over Dean’s shoulder. “Ah!” he cried, eyeing the bottle of Scotch and struggling. “That’s mine!”

Garnet gave him a rare smile; it barely turned up his lips. “I told you to give me back that dreamcatcher,” he said in his deadpan voice. “Payback’s a bitch.” He plopped the nearly full bottle of liquor into Dean’s hands. “I’d avoid the usual spots. Try the janitor closet in K ward. Sources say it’s unlocked.”

Dean let go of Lewis, having gotten what he came for. He was surprised that Garnet had come through for him like this. Though maybe it was just revenge on his klepto roommate. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Garnet said, watching Dean slip out the door.

“Goddamn it, G,” Lewis said. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Shut up, Pokey,” he said in his flat, informative tone. “It’s payback. Plus, I probably saved your damn life just now.”

Lewis readjusted his shirt. “Whaddaya mean?”

“God, you really are slow. Couldn’t you tell Winchester was bugging out?” Garnet shook his head. Pokey really was the best name for his retarded roommate; that and the smack it made to his manhood.  _ Lewis _ was always wanting so desperately to get some action and ‘poke’ some girls but never got lucky, because he was a poor sod with a habit for stealing  _ and  _ getting his lame ass caught every time.

Pokey shook his head. “He seemed irritable?”

Garnet flopped down onto his bed, on the other side of the room from Pokey’s. “Yeah, well I just saw Gordon being carried out of here on a stretcher, and it didn’t look like ‘irritable’ happened to  _ him _ .”

“I don’t get it.”

“Jesus, man,” Garnet’s voice gained some inflection, annoyance creeping in. “Somebody beat the everliving hell out of that asshole Gordon, and I’m betting it was Dean.”

Pokey’s face registered delayed panic. “Really?”

“You dumb fuck,” Garnet sighed and rolled over to grab some shut eye. It was none of his business, but he wondered what was going on with Winchester. He was usually the most normal seeming one of their group. Not that he blamed him for losing it on Gordon, but still... it had been pretty brutal. It almost lived up to the stories.

Well, he hoped the alcohol helped some.

* * *

Dean wasted a good amount of time getting completely hammered. It made him feel better, even though it also made him feel worse. 

He knew that drinking wouldn’t solve anything, but what it did mean is that he was required to resolve things  _ later _ rather than sooner. He could live with that. It also kept him from thinking. Mostly. 

The biting liquor had the run of his system and was making a messy haze of his thoughts. They’d probably found Gordon already and a small panic would be forming among the residents, wondering who had nearly ganked him and if anyone was next on the assailant’s list. With his history, there was a good chance he was suspect in more than a few minds. 

Hell, plenty of people had also seen Gordon all up in his shit on many occasions.

He tossed the bottle aside, and rose to his feet, swaying only slightly. He should get back to the room. He couldn’t avoid Sam forever. Fuck all if he knew what he could possibly say to him... but he couldn’t leave things like this. He ran a few scenarios in his head.

_ ‘Sam, there’s something I need to tell you... and you can hit me later if you want.’ _

_ ‘Hey Sammy, I’m sorry I jumped you earlier. Um, yeah, it really is Dean.’ _

_ ‘I’m your brother. Hate me yet?’ _

_ Christ.  _ How was he supposed to tell Sammy **_now_ ** , after fucking sticking his tongue down his throat?

He looked at the bottle he’d cast aside with a bland gaze. It was glass. He could always smash it and fillet his wrists after all. Then he could avoid this whole awkward mess and having Sam potentially hate him. “Oh, but wouldn’t  _ that _ be easy?” he groaned sarcastically, stretching his arms over his head with listless grace.

He never was one for taking the easy way out. Plus, he owed Sam the truth. Even if it was ugly.

He’d tell him in the morning, when he was sober. He didn’t need to be slurring out shit that didn’t make sense.

Dean stood with his ear nearly against the door, checking for sounds of life.  _ All quiet on the western front. _ He opened the door carefully and confirmed with his eyes.

He slipped out of the closet and closed it quietly behind him, skulking back to their room without hassle.

He opened the room’s door just as quietly. Good thing for him, the lights were off, meaning Sam was asleep. He’d worried momentarily that Sam wouldn’t be there at all, that he’d have requested a room change, but he could make out the form of him all tucked into bed.

Dean tiptoed in and unzipped his jacket as quietly as he could. He loved it but he sure as hell didn’t want to sleep in the damn thing.

He’d just slipped it off and lain it on the foot of the bed when he heard movement. The creak of the bed?

He turned and saw that Sam was sitting up now, facing him in the dark. Terror struck him suddenly, though he wasn’t sure why, or what he was picking up on.

“So, Dean, when were you going to tell me?” Sam said in a tone that was unlike any Dean had ever heard from him before. It was implacable and shot his veins through with ice.

“Tell you what?” he responded roughly, hoping that somehow he was getting this wrong. Hoping somehow that Sam didn’t  _ know _ .

“That you  _ are _ my brother, you lying asshole.”

* * *

TBC

  
  


**A/N:** Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - “Smashing the Opponent”**

Smack me again

And I can't believe it's true

Smashing the opponent

Was not my intention to do

Neither did you

Foresee such an outcome

To the unnecessary ending

I wish I could retrace all my steps

And erase my mistakes

With you

I wanted to say

You shouldn't suffer this way

I wanted to say

I hope I can take it away

Tempt me again and I will forget the truth

Backing your decision

Was something I neglected to do

Even for you

If you feel rage…To strike me with revenge

I will be standing right here

Waiting without fear

For you

I wanted to say

You shouldn't suffer this way

I wanted to say

I hope I can take it away


	10. Deeply Disturbed

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 10: Deeply Disturbed

“So, Dean, when were you going to tell me?” Sam said in a tone that was unlike any Dean had ever heard from him before. It was implacable but shot his veins through with ice.

“Tell you what?” he responded roughly, hoping that somehow he was getting this wrong. Hoping somehow that Sam didn’t  _ know _ .

“That you  _ are _ my brother, you lying asshole.”

* * *

Dean felt his legs go rubbery and he had to sit down. “How did you find out?” he asked hoarsely.

“Really, Dean?” Sam bit out, “You’ve been fucking lying to me like this and the first thing you want to know is how I fucking  _ found you out _ ?”

“I was going to tell you,” Dean said under his breath. Sam so rarely got angry, he wasn’t really sure how to react.

“Before or after you tried to  _ fuck  _ me?” he spat.

Fury snapped over Dean, hearing his little brother parrot Gordon’s words back at him. They sullied him. “Where the hell did you hear something like that?”

“You know where,” Sam said, standing up and getting in Dean’s face. “I heard the two of you talking before you hulked out. I just didn’t know it was about _ me _ .”

“Well, congratulations,” Dean said snidely. “Now you know Gordon is a dick who likes to make shit up.” Unless Sam heard his name used in the conversation, he wouldn’t have known who the fight was about and he would have acted much differently after pulling Dean off of the guy. He had to have heard something after that, from someone else. But who?

“Is that why you got so pissed at him, then?” Sam countered. “Because he was ‘full of it’?”

“And why not?” Dean yelled, getting to his feet. “So now I’m supposed to stand still and listen to some dickhead spouting off shit about my little brother?”

“Why didn’t you  _ tell  _ me?” Sam shouted back. “I found out by hearing random people talking about Gordon in the halls. I got to hear all about my crazy, violent brother from some complete strangers!” He gave Dean’s chest a shove, emphasizing his anger. “How was I  _ not  _ going to find out? You think Winchester is a common name, Dean, do you??”

“Hey, lay off,” Dean said harshly, knocking his hands back. “You weren’t the one with doctors half up your ass telling you to keep your pie hole shut or else you’d be sending your brother back into a fucking coma.”

“So you were stringing me along just to convince me that you weren’t my brother?” Sam’s voice was incredulous.

“YEAH, something like that.” Dean ran his hand through his hair, a scowl on his face. It was kind of a lie. Kind of  _ really _ misleading. But Sam’s version was a better one, so he was sticking with it. “Well, what was I supposed to do, Sammy? You were seconds away from figuring it out every time I turned around.”

Lightning cracked across his jaw as Sam launched a powerful hook-shot through his face. It unbalanced him and he landed against the edge of the mattress, then slid down onto the floor between the beds. “OW, dammit,” he growled as he held his throbbing jaw. “The fuck was that for?” Damn, but the kid had some upper arm strength.

“For fucking kissing me, you asshole,” Sam swore. “What in the hell am I supposed to make of that anyway? Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

“Well, if I didn’t before, I sure would now.” 

Sam had every right to be pissed. He had to be thinking of the attraction he’d felt and was now fighting the very notion of its existence now that he knew it was for his long-lost, lying, asshole of a brother. And, as far as he knew, Sam was straight as an arrow, making this a double whammy.

“So you’re back to jokes already,” Sam said darkly. “Get up so I can hit you again.”

“Look, Sammy,” he appealed, ”I’m sorry. I really am, but do you think that punching me is going to make you feel any better?”

“I’m willing to test it out.”

Dean groaned and got to his feet. This was going to suck. “You sure you’re not pissed because maybe you liked it a little?” The words had barely gotten past his smart-ass mouth, then  _ pow! _ Pain seared the lower half of his face as Sam’s fist connected again and he tasted blood. He hit back reflexively and felt his bruised fist collide with Sam’s cheek, and heard him curse.

“Goddamnit, why are you hitting me back?!”

“Look,” Dean said, “I’m sorry and all, but I’m not going to sit here while you make hamburger out of my face. You wanna fight, we’ll fight. But I’m not going to be your punching ba--”

Hands clamped onto his shoulders a split second before a knee slammed into his abdomen, making him double over. _Motherfucking_ _OW._ “Bitch,” Dean said, returning the favor as he straightened, sending an underhanded fist into Sam’s midsection, knocking the breath from him in an audible exhale. Conveniently, Sam was in the perfect position to also be caught into a headlock. Dean put him in one and torqued him into an elbow lock as well for good measure.

“Ow! Jerk!” Sam cried out as he struggled and Dean tightened his hold. 

“Are you finished yet?”

“Hell no,” Sam ground out, trying to wriggle free. “I’m going to kill you.”

“What for?” Dean was feeling pretty worn out. Beating the shit out of Gordon, threatening his sort-of friend for alcohol and then getting wasted, only to have two solid clocks to the face from his brother who’d been seriously wronged... stuff like that could really take the spring out of a person’s step. He just wanted to lay down, go to sleep, and never wake up. “For a kiss? C’mon, it wasn’t that bad. Just forget it already.”

“Shut up!” Sam yelled with scorching intensity, his voice quavering slightly. “You knew, Dean, but I didn’t!” The accusation was heavy, the words furious and seeming forced. Sam was struggling, caught between venting his anger and saying too much. “I--” he tried to continue, choking on the word as a fine tremor worked its way through his body.

Dean felt like a total bastard. If only he’d been strong enough to fight it, Sam wouldn’t have to feel like this or be upset like this. Sam thought that he had been messing around, just trying to be convincing and that he’d felt nothing all the while. He couldn’t be further from the truth, but Dean couldn’t enlighten him. They had to cut free of this and move forward. It was what was best for Sam. He couldn’t drag him further into this debased attraction that existed between them. 

A drop of something wet hit his arm and he realized Sam was crying.

_ Oh, hell.  _ He felt his own eyes tear up.

“C’mon,” Dean said heavily, “let’s go lay down.” The only thing for this was probably to just sleep it off. Though that probably wouldn’t be happening unless Sam was restrained, or else his little brother would be busy trying to kick his head in. He kept Sam loosely in the headlock while climbing onto the bed and pulling him along. If Sam resisted or tried to retaliate, he could easily bring him to heel. 

He didn’t want to fight anymore, so he’d just have to strong-arm his brother into feeling more peaceable.

Dean settled back on the bed, shoving the pillows atop each other and reclining upon them. Sam lay partially against him because of the submission hold, still breathing through clenched teeth, body tight with anger.

It was a poor example of ‘relaxation’, laying like this, and was closeness without being close. They’d never been at such odds with each other before.

His heart ached. How could he have lost control and kissed Sam like that? He’d been holding it together for so long now. Was seeing someone half naked really such hell on his self-control? 

At the time, he’d even been stopping Sam from giving the shirt back, realizing at the last moment that he wasn’t prepared to see all that bare skin again. Then he saw the way Sam was looking at him, saw the color rise in his cheeks and the suddenly averted eyes... and the next thing he knew, he’d leaned forward and was melting into the hottest set of lips he’d ever kissed. And Sam was kissing him back, just as wet and dirty as Dean could have wanted. It rode through him hard and fast, and that was when the desire had had him by the nads. 

His mind was on overdrive, wanting, imagining, craving. He wanted to touch, taste, and feel _ everything _ . He’d pushed Sam down, and it was only with his brother’s lack of resistance that he realized how easily it could all happen. He saw how easy it would be to screw everything up. It was then that truth smacked him in the face, making him panic. Sam would never be able to forgive something like this, or going further, even if he wanted it at the time. There was  _ no way.  _

“I hate you, Dean,” Sam said, his voice muffled against Dean’s side. It sounded a little more petulant than pissed off.

“...I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Sam shuffled a little bit, discovering to his frustration that Dean’s hold was remaining very effective at keeping him down. “You weren’t there when I needed someone the most,” he accused. “I had to rely on a  _ stranger _ instead of my own brother.” He meant that because of Dean’s masquerade, he couldn’t be there for him in the same capacity. All Dean had been able to offer was a stranger’s empathy. “Dean,” his tone shifted, sounding a little more like an appeal, “do you even care that Mom’s...?”

_ Dead. _

That was what he was saying. “I did the best I could, Sammy. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough for you.” He felt a tear start to slip down his cheek and he had to take a deep breath and focus on locking his emotions down. “Of course I care that Mom--” he stopped, remembering to watch his words around Sam, “...had an accident.”

“You didn’t hate her?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Well, I did,” Sam said in a surprisingly cold tone. “Underneath everything, I could never forgive her for splitting us up and then refusing to tell me anything about where you were.” There was a faint sniffle then, a flicker of emotion. The coldness rubbed out from his voice, ushering in tears as he said, “But... I still really loved her, you know?” Sorrow was carved into the words, and regret.

“Yeah.”

He looked down upon the light brown wavy hair of his brother’s head. There wasn’t much else he could say, but he totally understood the mixed feelings. He had some in him right now, about Mom and also about Sam. This stupid submission hold was probably the closest thing he could give to comfort his little brother at the moment, the closest thing to a hug. It forced them to remain in contact, even though that was the last thing Sam wanted right now. 

“I missed you so much, Dean,” Sam said then, the tears still riding his voice. Unspoken was the accusation,  _ After I finally found you, why did you have to lie to me and fuck things up like this? _

“Me, too,” he admitted, losing the battle with his own tears. He closed his eyes, tilting his head towards the ceiling in an effort to thwart their descent. His arms twitched where they lay about Sam in an almost hug.  _ Me, too. _

* * *

Morning light trickled into the room and it was Sam that woke first. The rise and fall of rhythmic breathing reminded him that his head lay pillowed upon his brother.

_ I finally found him. _

Part of him was elated. But another part felt dark and twisted, angry and bitter. He lifted his head, feeling Dean’s arm slide from around him. Their legs were twined in an approximation of the intimacy he’d been made to want from the man he’d  _ thought  _ was only his roommate.

_ Damn you. Why did you do this to me? _

It had been worse than simply ‘a shock’ to find that the one who had kissed him like that - who had been making him busily bend his morals fore and aft - was his own  _ brother _ . His actual, honest-to-god brother!

Now he was left holding the bag while Dean shrugged off the matter.

He’d said he was sorry, sure, but ‘sorry’ wasn’t quite enough to cover something like this.

Sam stared down at his sleeping face, dismay piercing his chest. He knew every line of that arresting face, every curve, every freckle. He still felt the same pull as before, and the same heat as his eyes drifted over lips that were so full they appeared to be pouting when not drawn out into one of their many expressive smiles or smirks. 

So now he knew the truth, but his body and his feelings did not know the difference.

Dean’s lashes fluttered slightly as he woke and opened his eyes, which were fern green in this light. They were so beautiful, so compelling, and it pissed Sam off. He looked away, deciding that extricating his legs from Dean’s was top priority.

“Still mad at me?” his older brother asked needlessly, rubbing a hand through his dark hair. Sam was noticing he did that when feeling uncertain.

“Yeah,” he said shortly. “Still mad.”

“Aw, come on, Sammy,” Dean grumbled, his face falling. “Even after that heart-to-heart we had about Mom?”

“I seem to recall you having me in a headlock,” Sam said pointedly. “Sorry if that didn’t exactly give me a warm fuzzy.” He could already tell he was going to forgive Dean, as asinine as that was; it was always hard to stay mad at him, even when they were kids. But Dean didn’t need to know that.

“What do you want, Sammy? You want a popsicle or something? Cherry? Orange Cream?”

“Oh, shut it! I’m not five anymore. You can’t fix things like that.”

“Five? You were still sucking on those things at ten!”

Sam put a hand over his face, the innuendo making it flush. “Dean,” he muttered.

“Oh,” his brother said in surprise. “Sorry, uh, I wasn’t--”

“Whatever,” he said under his breath. Even on a good day, Dean loved to tease him. But if he was going to be reacting to every little thing, intentional or not, this was going to be torturous. “Move, I need to use the bathroom.”

Dean moved aside without comment, but Sam could feel his gaze upon him until he shut the bathroom door behind him.

He drained his tank and then got into the shower.

_ I have to get this out of my system.  _ The problem was... up until a little while ago, his brother had been nothing more than a collection of memories that lived on inside him. His ‘roommate’, however, had been  _ real _ and _ immediate _ , not to mention supposedly  **_not_ ** related to him. He’d been safe - only reminiscent of those old memories. But not anymore. Now he was anything but ‘safe’, and Sam found that he was still attracted to him. 

That kiss, and the desire that had been pulled from him like an unending string of yarn... he couldn’t forget it. He couldn’t forget the feelings that had surged through him as they’d sunk down upon the bed. He’d been ready... ready for whatever came next.

Sam’s face was brutally hot as he slipped a hand down to touch himself, doing what he could to kill that wayward desire, grateful for the racketing noise the water made. He had to lay aside his feelings for the other Dean, and remember how he felt about his  _ brother _ Dean.

The distinction was harder to make than it should have been.

And how could it not be? They were the same fucking person!

Other-Dean’s eyes were the same color as his-Dean’s eyes. They laughed the same, moved the same. And.... they made him feel the same. Their lips would be the same, and so would their hands, their caresses, their voices in his ear...

Reaction flooded him, shaking through his body as his brain overloaded itself on every piece of slightly off-color history they’d shared over the past few few weeks. Every extended look, every solicitous joke, every near kiss...

He gritted his teeth as he shuddered, release snapping through him with more strength than he’d ever felt before. Even his poor, dead girlfriend, the one he was introducing to his mom, the one that he’d deemed to be ‘The One’, even she had never made him feel even a  _ fraction _ of this. 

He sank down to the floor of the tub, eyes stinging, and wrapped his arms around himself. This was so fucked up. So beyond fucked up. It was like he was in love with his brother, but he couldn’t be. It was wrong, and mental, and he wasn’t sure if he could help it. The fact that he felt the urge to apologize to his dead girlfriend just made everything that much worse.

* * *

“Bobby,” Dean said later that morning, sitting in the psychiatrist’s office. “We need new rooming assignments.”

Sam, who was sitting near him, looked up in surprise. Dean hadn’t mentioned anything about this to him.

The psychiatrist was still looking at them with incredulity written all over his face, as he had since first clapping eyes on them. He re-adjusted his tie, which clashed a little with his grey suit, looking like he was debating saying something. After a moment, he asked Dean, “Did you tell him, then?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “It was a big hit.”

Bobby leaned back in his chair. “You boys look like hell warmed over.”

“Sammy’s still pissed at me since I had to lie to him,” Dean said, his eyes flicking to Sam’s, telling him to shut up. “So I think it’s for the best.”

Dr. Singer turned to the younger brother. “Sam?”

“Yeah, he’s right,” Sam confirmed. He caught Dean’s eye and asked him silently,  _ ‘What the hell?’  _ Dean shot him the ‘just trust me’ face, making him roll his eyes.

“Well,” Dr. Singer said, contemplating the state of them. “We can’t have more fights.” He rubbed his hand over his short beard. After what happened to Gordon, the facility was in a state of lockdown. Even a twitch of explosive behavior was bound to be medicated aggressively. Staffers had bets that it was Dean that had worked Gordon over so hard, but it was only speculation; there was no solid proof. 

An orderly by the name of Fred had seen Dean in the hall some time before Walker was found, but Dean seemed to have an alibi. One of his card buddies, Garnet, mentioned being with him at the time. 

Alcohol was grudgingly mentioned (after much convincing on his part), which was most definitely against facility rules, but he was going to pretend he didn’t hear about that for now. But it made sense, because afterwards, it seemed that Dean had taken the plunge, laying the truth out on his brother and getting into a fistfight for his troubles.

“Sam,” Robert said carefully, “you do realize that it was under my discretion that Dean lied to you about being your brother?”

The younger Winchester scowled, wavy bangs falling into his eyes as he glared at his brother. “Sure,” he said scathingly. “Along with a ton of other shit that doesn’t nearly make it okay to me.”

Dr. Singer wondered if Dean had lost control of his impulses, and that was the true source of the fight that had split Dean’s lip and caused a nasty, swelling bruise upon Sam’s high cheekbone.

“Alright, I’ll approve it. Under one condition.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked, his green eyes sharp.

“I think it best you do not disclose to the general population that you are brothers. It helps that you entered the facility with different names, but that won’t last against inquisitive minds unless you are mindful of it. They will start to ask questions if they frequently see you in each other’s company.” 

“So what are we supposed to tell people?” Dean asked, a careless look upon his face. “That same spiel about me being the one that found him first and all that crap?”

“Yes,” Robert said, “because it’s true.”

His real reason for this precaution was in case the boys made up. As in, really made up. Whether it was acted on or not, the two of them had a  _ vibe _ and others would not react so well to them being family - not if they thought the boys were ‘together’. Residents, gay or not, who had been found having relations with one another were not usually treated softly by other residents, but they weren’t ostracized as it was not uncommon. He imagined that mood would shift, however, if a pair of brothers was discovered in such an arrangement. It would be more unique, more taboo, and something that could be easily isolated and attacked. 

“Who are we going to be rooming with?” Sam asked, slightly hopeful that he might make an acquaintance here, but worried all the same.

“That has yet to be determined,” Robert responded.

“Better not stick me with any of my mates,” Dean warned. “We’d rip each other up in close quarters.”

Dr. Singer suspected that wasn’t the case, that he had another reason for the request, but he could oblige Dean. All of the members from his card circle, the patients he associated with the most, were in stable rooming assignments. There was no need to break any of those up.

“Are we done, Dr. Singer?” Sam asked. “I’m hungry.”

“Do you agree not disclose the nature of your relationship with Dean to anyone, Sam?”

_ Like hell I would,  _ Sam thought in annoyance.  _ I’m busily trying to convince  _ **_myself_ ** _ otherwise.  _ “Yeah. No problem.”

“You’re free to go. I’ll contact you later with the new room assignments.”

“Great,” Dean said, stretching like a cat. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Once they’d left the office behind, en route to the cafeteria,  Sam said, “Okay, what gives?”

“What?” Dean said, all nonchalance.

“You don’t want to room with me anymore?”

Dean shrugged. “What’s in it for me? Maybe things’ll settle out if I’m not staring you in the face, reminding you that you’re pissed at me.”

“Jackass,” Sam swore in irritation. Dean was supposed to suffer his ire, not switch fucking rooms because he felt like being a coward.

“It’ll be easier,” Dean said so quietly, Sam almost didn’t hear him.

“What?” Sam said sharply.

Dean flashed him pained green eyes, then looked away, putting his hands behind his head. “It’ll be easier for you,” he said with another shrug, as if Sam was someone who needed mollified.

_ Your act isn’t fooling me _ . Dean was known to pretend indifference even when he cared about something, or act bored when something had actually hurt him. At least, Sam had seen it when they were younger. It felt like he was doing the same thing now, but his actions and words were wrapped up in the anger Sam felt, and he couldn’t clearly determine if that was truly the case. 

He wasn’t entirely sure that Dean had just been toying with him before, with all of the teasing and flirting and such. Maybe he actually had been acting on feelings, but if he was, he wasn’t owning up to them.

“You’d better hope I don’t get some psycho for a roommate,” Sam warned, “or it’ll be my blood on your hands.”

Dean looked disturbed. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Though I guess I might always get some pervert who can’t keep his hands to himself...” he trailed, determined to get a rise out of Dean.

His brother’s face became shuttered and closed. “That happens, and I’ll take care of it myself.”

Sam didn’t like the sound of that, and it was ambiguous as hell. “And what does that mean?” he pressed, grabbing hold of Dean’s shirt to make him stop striding down the hall so quickly. “What would you do?”

Dean’s hand rested over top of his, set to remove it, but not moving immediately to do so. Their eyes clashed and he said, “You don’t want to know.”

Sam bit the inside of his lip, the intensity in Dean’s voice burning through him. Images of that guy Gordon flashed before his eyes. “I  _ want _ to know,” he said stubbornly. He could still remember the feel of the tension that had been riding Dean’s body when he’d pulled him off of the bloody mess he was making of the prone Gordon. He’d been more beast than man, his green eyes had been wild, crazed and, for one terrifying moment, Dean hadn’t recognized him.

Dean pulled Sam’s hand from him and tossed it aside. “ _ No _ , you don’t.” He stalked down the hall, not looking back to see if Sam was following or not.

Sam jogged after him, a frown etching his face.

* * *

“Didja see the new guy?” Garth asked the circle, throwing down a card.

“Yup,” Garnet said. “Saw him in the cafeteria with Winchester.”

“You think he’s doing him?” Pokey asked, following his roommate’s card with one of his own.

“Maybe,” Jared, the weightlifter said with a raised brow. “They seem pretty tight.”

“Do you mind? I’m sitting right here, you assholes,” Dean muttered, playing his card.

“That’s right,” Pokey said, face lighting as if with epiphany. “From the horse’s mouth! You sleeping with the new guy, Dean? Ow-!”

“Dumb shit,” Garnet said, sniggering a little as his roommate clutched his head from the epic smack Dean had cuffed him with.

“New guy’s name is Sam,” Dean informed them tersely, “and for the last time, I am not sleeping with him.”

“Bet you want to, though,” Garth twittered.

“Hey man, fuck you,” Dean spat. “Not all of us are so hard up for some ass that we’re gonna start slapping the other side of the fence.”

“C’mon, man,” Jared said peaceably. “No one said that you were.”

“Thank you,” Dean said with an affirming nod of his head and a scowl. Some of these motherfuckers didn’t know when to quit.

Jared continued, “They’re just suggesting you have a thing for Campbell, which you do.”

“Aw, man,” Dean said with disgust, his one ally turning against him. “Fuck all of you. I got better things to do than listen to this shit about some dude I barely know.”

“Better things like what?” Pokey said, nose buried in his cards. “Like doing Campbell?”

Dean gave Lewis’s chair a mighty kick, knocking it over and spilling the man onto the floor in an ungraceful crash. “Your Scotch was great, by the way,” he said with a sharp, taunting smile. He knew personally how hard it was to smuggle alcohol into this place and that, for Pokey, the loss of an entire bottle had to be the equivalent of losing his left nut. “Get me some more,” he suggested flatly.

He left to the sound of the small man’s lips flapping open and closed like a goldfish. “Did you hear him, G?” Lewis’ aggrieved voice said faintly as Dean stalked down the hall. “He drank it  _ all _ and....” And then the little gnome was out of earshot.

Damn it, but playing cards had gotten annoying lately. Maybe he’d have to find something else with which to occupy his time.

But this answered his question at least. There was no fucking way he was bringing Sam around these harpies.

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title is from Infected Mushroom - “Deeply Disturbed”. It is more of an instrumental, voice-warp sort of thing (that even sounds like he’s saying more things than he is), so the lyrics are pretty un-lyrical looking.. but here they are anyway. The song is really cool though and sort of defies description, as do most of their songs. lol. 

**Infected Mushroom - “Deeply Disturbed”**

"(music)...

(voice):

And i'm deeply disturbed

And i'm deeply unhappy

And i'm deeply disturbed

And i'm deeply unhappy

And i'm deeply disturbed

And i'm deeply unhappy

And i'm deeply disturbed

And i'm deeply unhappy

(music)...

(voice):

(background sound)deeeeeeeeply disturrrrrbed

Deeeeeeeeply disturrrrrrrrbed

And i'm deeply disturbed..(background sound)..deeeeeeeeply

And i'm deeply unhappy ..(background sound)..disturrrrbed

And i'm deeply disturbed..

And i'm deeply unhappy

Deeply disturbed..(background sound)..deeply

And i'm deeply unhappy ..(background sound)..disturrrrbed

Deeply disturbed

And i'm deeply unhappy....

(music)...

(voice)

DISTURBED........."


	11. Semi Nice

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

**** Ch. 11: Semi Nice

Sam sat on his new bed in his new room, with a frown, back to the wall.

His new roommate did the same, staring back at him, only he wasn’t frowning.

Sam sort of regretted making that crack to Dean about getting paired with a psycho. This guy was huge, hulking, and looked like he could crush a motorcycle in his bare hands. Or Sam’s spine, in which case, he would hardly break a sweat. He had a fair number of tattoos covering pale arms the size of tree trunks.

Sam couldn’t tell from his expression if he was more likely to kill him or eat him. The man had an intent sort of beady stare.  

Attempts to talk had not gone well. The shaved-headed man responded monosyllabically at best. The alternative was a grunt, or merely the STARE.

Sam would love to be leaving the room right about now, but he couldn’t. His roommate Bernice’s bed was on the side with the door, effectively barring his exit. He thought it was utter crap that ‘nice’ was in the man’s name. He only knew this because the man spelled it out during their longest conversation to date.

_ ‘Hi, I’m Sam. What’s your name?’ _

_ ‘Bernice. B-E-R-N-I-C-E.’ the man paused, possibly assessing him. ‘I like mangoes,’ he said, then gave Sam one of the original versions of the stare. ‘But I don’t like fruits.’  _

_ ‘Uh... good,’ he’d said after he recovered. ‘Me neither.’ He was pretty offended if the guy was implying he looked gay, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask for clarification or pick a fight with this one. He’d be dead before he started. _

Sam did try asking what the man was in here for, but all he got was a creepy smile, so he decided to let that go, too.

He wished Dean would locate his room and come looking for him. It would give him a reason to stop this staring contest with Bear (as he’d dubbed him in his head) and get the hell out of here.

“Your hair’s like a girl’s,” the man-bear said in his gruff voice.

Sam scowled, his eyes flicking to the side as he counted to 10.  _ What the hell?  _  Why did everyone think that not cutting or shaving all of your hair off made you have ‘girly’ hair? Some people could get away with close cuts and have it suit them, like Dean, but he knew he’d look funny... and his ears tended to get cold.  _ Besides, _ he thought defensively,  _ girls certainly seem to like my longer hair. So bite me, Cueball.  _

“It covers a hideous scar I got when I was young,” he said shortly. Not true at all, of course, but maybe it would get the guy to shut up about it and stop looking at him like that.

“Can I see it?”

Sam shot him an indignant look edged with disgust. “No.” What was with this guy?  _ Dean, where the hell are you? _

“Why not?” his strangely insistent mountain of a roommate asked menacingly. 

“If I showed you, I’d have to kill you.” Sam tried to sound believable. Calm. Blunt. He was also counting the remaining moments he had to enjoy being among the living.

“Heh.” The Mountain laughed.

This could be either good or bad. “Heh” as in, ‘You’re funny, kid’. Or “Heh” as in, ‘I’m going to paint the wall with your guts.’

There was a knock at the door, a triple rap. 

_ Oh, thank god. _

“Sammy, you in there?”  

“It’s ‘Sam’,” Sam called back with irritation. Like he needed to give Mt. Krakatoa over there any more ammunition with a nickname like that. He eyed down his roommate and repeated, with a determined glare, “It  _ is _ Sam.”

“Yeah, whatever, man,” Dean said through the door. “Come on out, I need to talk to you.”

Sam slid off of his bed carefully, watching Bernice like one would a sleeping lion. No sudden movements. Quiet. He edged around the side of the room, flattening against the wall as he got nearest to the other man, and then slipped out the door like greased lightning. As it shut, he leaned upon it, catching his breath and waiting for his jangling nerves to settle.

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean asked, taking stock of him.

“Stop calling me Sammy. It’s  _ Sam _ .” He pushed off from the door and set off down the hall. Dean needed to quit while they were ahead. The nickname was starting to bug him - other people would wonder about it if they heard it, just like his roommate. And he already got shit for his long hair, he really didn’t need to add to the list.

“Why?” Dean asked, not one to honor a request unless he deemed it valid. 

“I don’t like it,” he said shortly. Dean called  _ him _ stubborn, but so was he. Stubborn and relentless.

“I could always switch back to ‘Samantha’,” Dean suggested with a lift of his eyebrows. “Since you liked that so much.”

Sam glared at his brother, knowing that he could and would call him that in front of other people, just for a laugh. “Don’t you fucking dare.” If looks could kill, Dean would be one seriously dead smart-ass right now. 

Dean’s mouth quirked up at the corner in an amused smirk, and Sam was taken with the urge to punch him.

Dean’s smile widened as he seethed, and his older brother threw an arm around his shoulders as they walked. “Relax, Sammy,” he mock soothed. “I probably won’t.”

Sam shook his head and wondered what he’d done to deserve a brother like Dean. He shrugged off Dean’s arm, and said, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Well, I wanted to see how your roommate was working out, for one.”

“I’m not sure.”

“You find out what he’s in for?”

“No one’s here for violent aggression and murder, right?” Sam asked, hoping the answer was ‘no’.

“Murder? No. Aggression, maybe, but they medicate the fuck out of you.”

“Great,” Sam muttered. So maybe his roommate couldn’t kill him, but only because some medication or other was acting like an electric fence.

“You worried or something?” Dean asked, his eyes studying Sam’s face.

“No,” he lied. “It’s fine.” He didn’t see any good coming from a clash between his brother and a freaking volcano. He’d deal with this on his own. After all, he’d been dealing with things on his own for a long time now. He was no longer an innocent, sheltered kid, doted on by his entire family. Not by a long shot. Besides, he could always ask Bobby about the possibility of a room change if things got worse. “How’s yours?”

“Meh,” Dean said.

“Meh?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Dean said by way of dismissal. “Listen, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about... there are some guys I know around here, real winners, I tell ya. Take what they say with a grain of salt.”

Sam felt his eyebrow rise. “And these are friends of yours?”

“Sort of. We play cards. Anyway, just in case we run into them--”

Dean broke off as they neared the cafeteria, nodding to someone Sam had never seen before. He noticed Dean’s body language change as they stepped inside the crowded dining area; he was suddenly on guard, tight, eyes flicking around the room as if placing every face within the four walls.

“Winchesterrrr,” a voice cat-called. 

“Good work on Gordon, man,” another called out aggressively. “Way to fuck someone up, you psycho.”

“It wasn’t me,” Dean called back without looking. “I  _ finish _ what I start.”

They made it another dozen steps closer to the food line, when a hostile-looking man stepped in front of them. “I say you’re a liar, Winchester. ” 

Dean groaned internally, recognizing one of Gordon’s fanclub. Friend. Something. He didn’t really care, except this guy was definitely itching to make a scene and he’d been trying to lay low. He certainly never wanted Sam to see him lose it again, like he had with Gordon. It had changed the way his little brother looked at him, the memory of it flickering in his eyes from time to time. Looking at him like he was dangerous. Grey eyes were on him now, wary, wondering what he was going to do.

“Say whatever you like, Wilcox,” Dean said with a tilt of his head and an arrogant tone. “But  _ don’t  _ stand between a man and his breakfast.”

The man’s coffee colored skin flushed with rage. His distinguishing feature was a long black  _ Fu Manchu _ mustache, which was like an upside-down horseshoe of hair that tapered at the ends and fell past his chin. He also had a fro. Dean would have been inclined to like him if the guy hadn’t been such a dick.

“You won’t be able to  **_eat_ ** breakfast when I’m through with you.” The man started forward, hands at the ready. Circling.

“That so?” Dean said in a bored tone, turning his back on him. He counted out a few seconds mentally, then shot his left arm up over his shoulder in back-handed fist, clipping the taller man in the face.  _ Idiot. _

“My toof!” Wilcox cried out. Dean tossed a glance over his shoulder to see the man’s mouth dripping blood behind the protective cup of his hand. “You moferfucker!”

“You get what you pay for,” Dean said, wondering if the guy was going to be stupid enough to rush him again. 

“Dean!” A harsh whisper and a hand on his arm brought his attention back to Sam. The look he was on the receiving end of made him feel guilty. “What?” he said, shrugging off his brother’s arm. “He started it.”

“I know,” Sam said, eyes darting between him and the other guy. “But maybe you should chill.”

Dean rolled his eyes. If he turned over a pansy new leaf of non-resistance to tools like this, the bastards would be a lot more cocky with him. Sam didn’t understand how this worked, obviously. Dean was preventing future fights by taking stands early on. Gordon was something of a special case. He’d always known that if they’d crossed fists, one of them wouldn’t be getting back up. So for him, Dean had avoided outright confrontation.

“You should listen to your new friend,” Wilcox said, wiping at the blood on his chin with the back of his hand. His brown eyes were like flint. “Unless you want him involved in your little disagreements.”

“Do I look like a fucking accessory to you?” Sam said with irritation, making the guy acknowledge his presence instead of talking around him. The guy had some fucking nerve threatening Dean by threatening  _ him _ , as if he was some defenseless chick hanging off his arm like brainless eye candy. Another snap judgment people were prone to make is that he couldn’t take care of himself. Just now it was pissing him off beyond belief. 

“Oh,” Wilcox said with a smile. “Whaddaya know? It talks.” 

“Sam, cool it,” Dean said under his breath, knowing he was fast losing his temper.

Two more guys materialized at the mustached man’s side. It was starting to size up into a proper fight.

“But I think the question we’d like to be asking,” the tall man with the fro said, “is can it  _ fight _ ?”

“Wanna find out?” Sam said with a sharp smile.

“Sam!” Dean barked out in a low voice, trying to order him to stop. It didn’t seem to be working. “Dammit.”

Sam ignored him. He was sick of people thinking they could push him around. Still, he waited for one of them to make the first move. Dean seemed to think that sort of thing was important in this place, and maybe it was.

It didn’t take long before one of the backups ran at him, taking a swing. Sam ducked the punch and did a leg sweep, knocking the guy off his feet. He barely had time to straighten and someone else’s fist caught him in the jaw. He saw stars for a minute and was grabbed from behind and punched in the stomach. Bile rose in the back of his throat. 

He thought he could hear Dean involved in his own skirmish, but trying to look was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

Sam headbutted the guy behind him, hearing a crack, then turned, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and doing a hip throw that slammed the man’s back to the floor. He staggered back a bit, his head spinning.  _ The problem with headbutts _ , he thought.  _ They bite back. _

Sam swore more people had joined the fray. He had his eyes on at least 3 to 4 guys, and he could hear Dean working on his own set. He glanced over quickly and confirmed this, watching Dean land a clean punch to some guy’s face that actually made him spin a rotation as he fell.

“Hey, Campbell,” Wilcox said as he slammed his fist into Sam’s left eye.

_ Shit. Stupid mistake.  _ Sam hit the ground as he was knocked into from behind. He barely had time to try and protect his ribs before someone began viciously kicking his midsection. Or maybe it was multiple someones... 

He tried to figure out their exact location from the angle of the blows, so he could make his next move. He was pretty sure it was two in the front, and one bitch behind him, making his kidneys fear for their imminent safety. _ Best course would be to... _

All of a sudden, he was being dragged up by the collar of his shirt by someone so strong, they were doing it one-handed. With  _ ease _ . 

_ Oh, fuck. _ His eyes opened reluctantly, no longer needing protected as the blows had temporarily ceased. His goddamn feet were hardly touching the ground and he could see there was a momentary pause in the fight itself, many of the participants staring his way. Dean was one of them, frozen in action, fist caulked back to hit a guy he had by the collar, green eyes wide.

“Don’t fight,” a voice rumbled from behind him, like the grating of tectonic plates.

Sam swallowed hard, recognizing the voice. “H-Hey, Bernice,” he managed to get out. He was still unsure if he was out of the frying pan or if he’d officially fallen into the fire. The urge to throw up was either fear or the sudden loss of adrenaline.

“You’re not made for fighting,” he said, specifically to Sam.

Riiiiiight. Creepy. “You mind putting me down?” he tried to ask nicely.

“Yeah,” Bernice said, and Sam was suddenly really hoping that this was not a sign of his roommate taking a liking to him in a weird way. “Wait for it,” the huge man added.

_ Wait for what? _

At that moment, a bunch of orderlies ran into the crowded cafeteria and everyone scattered. It was bedlam, with shouting, stampeding and general chaos. Sam was sort of above it all, no one wanting to get too close to him or the mountain that held him aloft by the scruff of his neck.

Mt. Krakatoa soon began to shuffle through the mass of people, taking him to the exit, and who knew where after that. Sam tried not to let himself freak out, but he wanted off of this ride. NOW.

One of the orderlies barred the way. “Where are you going, Bernice?” he said authoritatively. He looked a little twitchy, though, like he was scared he might be poking a sleeping lion with a pointy stick. Which he may well have been.

“Infirmary,” Krakatoa spoke, and the orderly gave way like a poor sap facing a lava flow.

Out in the hall, Sam said, “You wanna put me down now?”

“No.”

_Oh, man._ He grimaced. It was just like being in the room with him earlier, only _freakier._

Sam endured his escort to the infirmary, grateful as hell that that was where he’d actually ended up. “Uh, about earlier,” he tried again as he was set down. “For helping me out with those guys... Um, thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bernice said, and pushed him through the door.

_ Right.... _ Sam thought sarcastically as he stumbled,  _ because that would be a ‘strange’ thing to do.  _

_ Not like staring at your new roommate as if you were trying to decide whether to roast him or grill him is weird in the slightest.  _ He wondered if the bar for  _ strange _ in this place was set universally or individually.

He sighed. He wasn’t really sure why he’d been taken to the infirmary. It wasn’t like he’d suffered anything a couple of Tylenol wouldn’t fix. That’s mostly all they’d do for him anyway; he’d been roughed up before.

He looked around, noting a row of railed beds on either side of the room. About 12 altogether. Some had racks with curtains strung across them, for privacy he guessed. He walked upon the blue linoleum floor, edging further into the room. It had a disturbing mix of astringent, antiseptic odor and musty light. “Hello?” he called, just to make sure if he was alone in here or not. It didn’t seem like any of the beds were occupied, but there were a few doors on the back end of the room and someone could easily be in there.

This place was kind of creepy for being a hospital.

On the left was a desk that resembled a laboratory work area. It had a computer on it. Curiosity called, and he took a closer look. It was probably a bad idea to touch it, but he was already shaking the mouse and considering trying to crack the password to the  _ medstaff _ account he found at the login screen. 

A noise and a flow of cool air made him look up. He didn’t see anything, but it had definitely gotten chilly in here. He stood, eyes swiveling, trying to place the noise as he walked slowly back down the room. The hair on the back of his neck was raising.

“Winchesterrr,” a coldly pleasant voice said from behind him.

He turned and there was a man standing there, a doctor, judging by the white coat. He had an expansive beard and his name tag said Dr. Walter. “Who, me?”

The man nodded with a smile. His eyes glittered oddly.

Sam’s brows drew together. “My name’s Campbell.”

“Of course it is,” the doctor said. “And yet, you are a Winchester.”

Sam took a subtle step back as the man approached. His right hand was hidden in the pocket of his white coat. “I met your father once,” he said conversationally. “Nice man,” he nodded to himself, the smile shifting upon his bearded face like an unformed thing, “but severely delusional. A very interesting case.” 

“Are you implying he was a patient of yours?” Sam asked.  _ This guy can’t be more than 35, tops.  _ Could one really get through school that fast, and be seeing patients? His dad had been admitted to a mental hospital nearly 10 years ago.

“Oh, yes,” the man’s modulated voice said softly. “He was briefly in my care. You could say, he was the one that got away.”

The hidden right hand was really bugging Sam, and it seemed that there was something in that pocket that the doctor’s hand was touching. For a moment, vertigo seemed to take hold, the world swirling around that one detail - that right coat pocket.

“But now both of you boys are under one roof, partially under my care. Like a family reunion. Quite touching. Quite touching indeed. Like father, like sons.”

“Uh, I’m gonna go,” Sam said, walking backwards steadily. “Stuff to do and all.”

“Really, Samuel?” the doctor flashed him a set of pearly whites. “But surely you came here for something? Why not let me treat your wounds?”

“I’m good.” Back step, back step. How far was the damn door, anyhow?

“You’re feeling dizzy, I can tell.”

He flinched. “I’ll live.” He didn’t want this doctor anywhere near him.

“I can give you something for the pain.”

_ Back step, back step, back step. _ He was moving faster now, and so was Dr. Walter.

And the right hand was emerging, a small, clear syringe in its fingers. “You shouldn’t fight, Samuel,” the doctor was saying as he took off the transparent blue cap that covered the needle. “But let me help. I can make you feel right again.”

Sam’s back ran up against the door, and for one panicked second, it wouldn’t open. It slid beneath his damp fingers, refusing him an exit. 

Light glinted off of the needle as the plunger was depressed and droplets of liquid shot up from the tip in a thin, short stream.

Sam’s stomach clenched, cramping with fear, and the pain nearly made him double over. He couldn’t look away from that needle as it drifted closer. Couldn’t move.  _ Trapped.  _ He felt cold.

“Delightful,” the doctor said. “A shame the one with the sunny disposition has arrived.”

“Sam?” Dean called then, knocking at the door with the flat of his hand. “You in there?”

The doorknob twisted beneath Sam’s nerveless fingers and the door was opening behind him. He pushed past Dean and ran.

“Sammy?” Dean called after his brother, a frown marring his face. He took a quick peek inside the infirmary and saw nothing. No one. He closed the door, shaking his head and took off after him.

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title from  **Infected Mushroom - “Semi Nice”** . After I wrote this chapter, this song title caught my eye and struck me as funny, a nice tie-in to the OC I made. (Both to his name and his questionable intentions/motivations.)  

The song is an instrumental, so I’d say to just listen to it as background music. Alot of the songs are pretty long and are great when just on while you do other stuff. Like reading! :)


	12. Vicious Delicious

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 12: Vicious Delicious

Dean didn’t get far in his pursuit of his brother before being detained. A pair of orderlies, Chuck and Miles met him in the hall, blocking his path. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the amount of space they took up was impressive. They were some of the heavyweights in this asylum, and Dean did not care for them one bit.

“Come with us, Winchester,” Miles said, his huge biceps flexing under his short-sleeved white staff uniform. “Your time is up.”

“Time for what?” Dean asked, stalling. Miles was an islander with deep brown skin and hair that was curly, nearly black and pulled back into a loose ponytail. His eyes were arctic blue and he had a rough touch with the patients, one of which had gained a broken arm. He’d had at least two warnings regarding this sort of thing, and yet no one was bothering to fire him.

Chuck, a guy with shortish dirty blond hair who kind of resembled an older Mark Hamill (on steroids) said, “Your time as a free man. It’s off to solitary for you.” 

Dean backed up a step, holding his hands up in appeal. “Oh, come on. What for?” He could duck back down the hall where he came from, but there wasn’t much in that direction except for the infirmary. Besides, Sam had gone _ this _ way and he intended to follow. His brother had looked seriously freaked out.

Miles smiled, showing white teeth. “What  **for** ?” He laughed. “Where do I  _ start _ ?”

Chuck threw Miles an exasperated look. “You could start with what he did  _ today _ .”

“Yes, please enlighten us,” Dean said drolly. “But hurry it up, would ya? Looking at your faces is enough to gag a maggot.”

Miles leveled him with a look that said he’d love to earn another reprimand from his employers by breaking something on Dean. Maybe multiple somethings. “The cafeteria fight.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean said with irritation. “Solitary for  _ that _ ? I didn’t even start it.”

“Look, Chuck, isn’t he cute?” Miles said condescendingly, nodding at his coworker, “trying to reason with us like this.” He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at Dean. “He doesn’t seem to realize there is nothing that can come out of that smart-ass mouth of his that anyone will give a flying fuck about.”

Dean let out an over-dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. “If I come willingly, could you at least do me the favor of not talking?” He held his hands out like he was waiting for handcuffs. “Hell, I’ll lock myself up for that.”

“I could always knock your head in hard enough you wouldn’t even hear us,” Miles offered.

“Miles,” Chuck said with annoyance. “Stop talking to him, already. You know there’s no end to the shit coming out of his mouth. Let’s just grab him and be done with it so I can take my smoke break.”

Dean whistled. “So now I see who’s wearing the pants in the relationship. Never took you for being pussy-whipped, Miles.”

Miles growled and lunged at him. It was the perfect opening. Dean mentally thanked Chuck for being himself - impatient and lazy - and Miles for having a hair-trigger temper. He used the islander’s momentum against him, pulling on the extended arm closest to him as he moved forward as well, sending the man off-balance. Someone with less experience might have found themselves acquainting their face with the floor, but Dean knew Miles would keep his feet. This was just a means of breaking the blockade. He made a break for it.

With luck, and no impediments, he’d be able to outrun them. Maybe. Problem was, no matter how he ran, the time would come when someone found him. Orderlies were fucking irritating like that. It was like the Borg. One mind and all. Where one orderly failed to carry out a task, all the others were updated and the whole facility became a very tight place to maneuver in. 

FYI - running from orderlies was a bad thing. It was a sign of misconduct that was usually dealt with in an unpleasant fashion. He tried to avoid it.

As he was careening through the halls, he spied Ed’s familiar form and bushy hair.

“Hey, Ed,” he greeted, skidding to a stop.

Ed looked edgy. “Hi, Dean.”

“What’s up?” he asked, wondering why Ed was acting weird. He didn’t really have time for this, but he needed to find Sam and Ed seemed prone to keeping track of people, especially new ones.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” the teenager said, turning his shoulder and trying to shuffle away down the hall in a hunkered slouch.

“Hey-” Dean said sharply, the behavior annoying him. Ed flinched and looked back at him reluctantly. “Sorry,” Dean apologized immediately, not meaning to speak so roughly; Ed didn’t respond too well to that - he clammed up. “Why can’t you talk to me?”

Ed pushed his glasses up his nose. “I didn’t say that I  _ couldn’t _ ,” he corrected snobbishly. “I said that I  **_shouldn’t_ ** .”

Impatience snapped through Dean like a whip.  _ Argh! WhatEVER! Just get to the fucking point already.  _ “And why is that, Ed?” he said through a teeth-clenching smile.

“Because you’re in trouble  _ again _ , and  **I** don’t want to be in trouble.” He sniffed condescendingly. “Why do you always get into trouble, Dean? I should be ashamed to associate with you.”

Dean bit back his response to that. “Just one thing and I’ll leave you alone, okay?”

Ed frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I didn’t  _ say _ you had to leave me alone. Are you feeling antisocial, Dean?”

...aaaand Dean’s last nerve popped like a chestnut over hot coals. “Have you seen Sam Campbell?” he barked out, feeling like he was going to throttle the irritating boy.

Ed flinched theatrically, arms coming up to his chest like a T-rex. “W-why? Are you going to yell at him too?”

“No,” he growled. “Him, I want to talk to. Now answer the goddamn question, I don’t have much time.”

“I think he’s back in his room, but--”

“Thanks,” Dean said, taking off at a run again. Milo and Otis were not going to be kept at bay forever. He wanted to get at least a few minutes to see if Sam was okay, see what had him spooked, and maybe even let him know about his impending leave of absence. Well, if there was time before they dragged him off.

He beelined to Sam’s room and tried the door. Locked. “Sam? You in there?” he called and rapped on the door.

After a moment, there was a click and the door swung open.  _ Weird. _ “Sam?” he called again, starting to become suspicious. Sam would always answer him, if he could. Was he even in here at all? He pushed the door open a bit more, ready to jump back as he inched forward and peered inside.

Suddenly, a ridiculously strong arm hooked around his torso and arms from behind, squeezing him like a human bull clamp. “Gotcha,” Miles said, slapping a cloth over his nose and mouth as he held Dean still.

Dean struggled, cursing his luck. It smelled like chloroform. A wretched smell. They used it here on difficult patients to minimize injury to the restraining staff. The stuff always made him feel sick.

His vision began to swim and he saw Wilcox out of the corner of his eye, looking smug as hell. The moustached man regarded him with a glib smile and said, “A dog will always return to its vomit.” 

Dean growled in the back of his throat and struggled violently.  _ What the hell kind of shit is this?  _ The guy who started the fight was roaming free, while  _ his _ ass was getting tossed in a hell box? And where the hell was Sam at?

The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the apologetic face of his once-favorite orderly Paulo who walked out from the room, being the one who had been manning the door.  _ Son of a bitc--!  _ he shouted mentally as he blacked out. 

* * *

When Dean came to, he was lying on his side on a cold, damp concrete floor.

“I see they gave me the best room this time,” he croaked. Oh, he felt like hell. He needed some water.

He rolled into a sitting position, made more challenging by the straight-jacket he’d apparently been laced into. God-damned things were a pain in the ass. Someone was less than pleased with him, that much was apparent; They could have at least laid him out on the bed.

“Dillan?” he called out in a raspy voice. “Pablo?” His head was spinning a bit. “Hey, who the fuck is down here?” Those two were the most likely candidates.

“Shut your hole, Winchester,” a voice called back. It was Dillan.

“Unfortunately for you, it’s one of the only things that was left flapping free.”

A deep sigh heralded the orderly’s approach. The Irishman looked at him and shook his head. “Really, Dean, what the hell did you do now?”

Dean shrugged.

Dillan leaned against the the barred door and gave him a bland stare. “What’s sad is I think this is the longest you’ve gone without landing yourself in trouble.”

“Miss me?”

“Like a hole in the head.”

“Anyone else down here?” Dean asked, almost hopeful that Sam might be here as well, and within vocal range; though, he didn’t exactly want his brother to experience this.

“Well, there should be,” Dillan said, a frown forming on his face. “It takes more than two fists to have a brawl. But you’re the only one that’s come in.”

“Makes a guy feel special,” Dean said sarcastically as he struggled to his feet. He wibbled a bit, still rocking that chloroform in his system. He hoped he didn’t fall and crack his head open on anything, like the sink or the john. “You know how long they’re gonna keep me in this thing? Kinda hard to get a drink or take a piss like this.” Not to mention the joy of severely stiff arms which he could be looking forward to.

“What,” the Irishman said consideringly. “I think it’s a good look for you. Could be improved with a gag, though.”

“You’re one hilarious asshole, Dillan. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Sure. Every day - last time you were down here.” The orderly yawned and nodded toward’s Dean’s new, shiny white jacket. “I think it’s only till the doc gets here, but don’t quote me on that.”

Dean sighed heavily and went to sit on the bed. “Can you at least help me get some water?”

“As long as you’re aware that I will knock your ass out if you try anything.” Dillan brandished the black kubotan on his keyring. That stick could be used to disastrous effect on someones pressure points if the wielder knew what they were doing. Dillan did. He’d sort of learned that by experience.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said.

* * *

Time passes slowly in solitary.

Slow, like a lethargic snail.

A  _ dead _ , lethargic snail.

Dean rolled on his side, trying to shift into a position that, even with his jacketed arms, would be comfortable enough to let him sleep a bit longer. He hated being bored, so he’d rather be unconscious. He also disliked having his arms bound.

It had been hours and hours, he was sure, and still, no one had come to see him. Dillan had been decent enough to undo his coat (under pain of death, if he tried anything) so he could use the toilet, and then trussed him back up again. He was also pretty hungry.

He sighed, staring at the dark, featureless concrete wall he was facing into, a grim expression on his face. How long were they planning to keep him here? So far, no one had said anything to him about Gordon, so he was supposedly only being kept like this over the cafeteria thing. But it was strange that no one else was. Not to mention, it was total overkill.

He heard keys at the door of his cell and glanced over his shoulder apathetically. The smile that greeted him made him bolt upright - pearly whites framed by a bushy beard. 

“Why are you here?!” Dean snapped, his body going rigid as Dr. Walter let himself into the cell. This guy was always bad news. “Dr. Singer is my doctor,” he said, brandishing the information like a shield. Unease trickled through him, though he didn’t show it. “Where’s he at?”

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the man said pleasantly. “Why must you always be so confrontational?”

Dean bit back several responses he might have made to that.

“I’ve just come to have a little chat.”

“A chat,” Dean repeated, thinking that if that was all, hell must have frozen over. 

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed, sitting on the edge of the bed, uninvited. That smile widened a few more notches and his eyes glittered. “Just a little chat about your brother, Sam.”

“What about him?” Dean growled, knowing he wasn’t going to like this. He thought Bobby had said not everyone knew about that, and yet so many people  _ did _ seem to know.

“We’ll get to that,” Dr. Walter said. “But first things first.” He reached into his pocket and produced several syringes.

Dean’s eyes widened and he backed up quickly, pressing his back against the wall. “ _ No _ .”  _ No, not this. Not again. No. _

“No?” the doctor repeated quizzically. “But you don’t have a choice, Dean. That’s what it means to stay here. You are entrusting your well-being and your care to others. To professionals.”

Dean felt a cold sweat break out upon his forehead and his heart was hammering in his chest. “I don’t need anything you’re pushing.”

Dr. Walter smiled engagingly. “You’ve had it all before. It’s nothing new. Why don’t you just cooperate so we can move on to more pleasant things?”

“Screw you.”

“I met Sam today,” the doctor informed him casually. “I can really see the familial resemblance... like how you are both utterly terrified of me.” His smile warmed. “But where you become more... ‘charming’ than normal, Sam folds in an utter panic.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Stay the hell away from him.”

“It was quite fascinating to watch. I look forward to working with him in the future.” Walter’s eyes were about as human as a crocodile’s and his smile was just as wide and dangerous. “Did you know, he appears to have a fear of needles?”

Dean fought to get his arms free of the straight-jacket, his eyes glittering with hate.

“Now, Dean. It’s time you played nice. You can either take your medication like a big boy or I can call your brother in to the infirmary for an evaluation. It’s your choice, but I’d rather we focus on you at this time.”

“Bastard,” Dean said through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry, is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“It’s a big, fat GO TO HELL,” Dean said.

“I see. Well then...” 

In a flash, Dr. Walter grabbed Dean by the jacket, flipping him on his stomach and onto his bound arms. A firm hand held his head to the mattress sideways, and a knee in his back kept him down. He was strong for a doctor, not to mention unorthodox and probably a classic case for malpractice.

Dean’s eye rolled as he spotted one of the syringes being readied in the doctor’s free hand and he tried to throw him off.

“I would highly recommend you hold still, now,” Dr. Walter cautioned, knee grinding painfully into his spine. “I would hate to have the needle snap off in your neck. It is a very tricky site for intravascular administration, but the only one available with your arms bound up as they are.”

Dean suffered the feel of the needle sliding into his vein with eyes clenched shut, his breathing shallow. He could almost feel the poison flooding into him, one excruciating milliliter at a time.

The needle burned as it slid back out and soon, another took its place. And another. Three, all told, puncturing him like prehistoric mosquitoes, gentle hands like wings brushing his skin, holding them steady.

Nausea burbled in him as his blood spread the drugs around with every rapid heartbeat, smearing them through his system. He breathed heavily against the mattress, trying to get a handle on it.

“I hope you know,” Walter said as he collected the used syringes and put them into his pocket, “you’re one of my favorite patients, Dean.”

“Bite me,” he ground out.

“But,” the doctor continued. “I do have high hopes for Samuel. Such a broken boy, in need of repair.”

“No,” Dean said, voice unsteady. “Leave--” God, his head felt like a fucking windmill. “Leave him alone!” 

Dr. Walter leaned down to speak in his ear. “I should get started  _ right _ away.”

“No!” he yelled.

His shoulder was patted in a patronizing fashion.

“NO, goddamn you!!”

* * *

Dillan sighed and turned a page of his magazine. Dean sure was losing his shit. Now he was shouting like a freaking banshee.

What could he possibly be getting worked up over in here?

He shook his head, hoping someone decided to get Winchester out of his hair soon.

* * *

Sam was kept cooped up in his old room, unable to leave, for nearly 2 days. He was locked in. The orderly who put him there informed him that it would be a lot more pleasant than solitary, and that if he didn’t like it, he should try not getting into trouble next time.

Bobby visited him once, during the first day and he looked anything but happy.

Sam tried to ask him about Dean, but all he could get out of the psychiatrist was that he might not see him for a while. It wasn’t a good enough answer and he’d yelled that at Bobby, and Bobby had yelled right back that information was a privilege, not a right. He’d said that their sense of entitlement and lack of respect for the rules undid any good he could do for the two of them. He seemed really frustrated and disappointed in them. 

‘I’ll talk to you after you’ve had time to think about what you’ve done,’ he’d said.  

On the morning of the third day, there was a knock at the door. Sam consulted the clock and saw it was time they’d be bringing something to eat for breakfast. “Come in,” he said needlessly. They were the ones with the keys, after all. But it let him talk to someone at least.

Marilene bustled in with a tray. “Good morning, Sunshine. How are we today?”

“Okay,” he said. 

“I heard a little something,” she hummed under her breath as she tidied the room.

“What’s that?”

“You ought to be getting company soon, but you didn’t hear that from me.” She came over and fluffed his pillows with a smile tugging at her lips. “A little birdy told me it might be your old, devilish roommate. He should be getting out of solitary today - he always was a mess after that - and your room is slated to receive double meals starting this afternoon. ”

_ Solitary? _

Sam grabbed her wrist, and she seemed surprised. “Why was he in solitary?!” He hadn’t known Dean was being punished - he’d thought they were merely being kept in separate rooms as a sort of slap on the wrist. So that orderly that mentioned solitary, he’d said it because he knew Dean was there and Sam was getting off with nothing. “The fight was practically all my fault!”

“Sammy,” she said quietly, “let go of my arm, honey.”

He did so, feeling confused being talked to like he was 5 and seeing the blonde nurse step back out of range almost pointedly. She rubbed at her wrist like it was hurt.  _ Had _ he hurt her? Surely he hadn’t gripped her wrist  _ that _ hard. But he felt compelled to apologize. “Sorry, I didn’t mean...”

“It’s ok,” she said, her voice sort of clipped, though she put on a faint smile. It seemed strained. “I’ll be back in 30 minutes to collect your tray.”

* * *

It was well past mid-morning when Dean was brought into the room. His muscled body was limp and unmoving in the arms of an insanely strong looking orderly who had piercing, pale eyes and curly dark hair pulled into a low ponytail.

The orderly dumped him on the other bed like a sack of potatoes. 

“Enjoy,” he said in his deep voice, closing and locking the door behind him. 

Sam scrambled to his brother’s side. For a minute, he worried that Dean was unconscious or worse. “Dean,  _ Dean _ ,” he said, shaking him slightly. 

“Quiet,” Dean whispered hoarsely, not opening his eyes. Sam noticed he had a small cloud of red pinpricks on the side of his neck.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, lowering his voice.

“Sure,” was the unconvincing answer. After a few moments of shallow breathing, he asked, “They medicate you?”

“No.”

“Good,” Dean said, then passed out.

* * *

Sam was occupying himself with a newspaper he’d begged off of a reluctant Bobby later that afternoon when a soft groan caught his attention. He glanced over at his brother’s bed and saw signs of life.

Dean struggled to sit up, looking like he felt ill, and said in a scratchy voice, “What time is it? It’s dark outside.”

“About 10 p.m.” Sam replied. “You hungry? I saved you something off of the dinner and lunch trays.”

Dean’s eyes were a little bloodshot as they looked his way, making the green stand out so much it almost looked like his eyes were glowing. There was also a shadow of stubble upon his normally clean-shaven face. “What’ve you got?”

“Crackers from the soup at dinner, and a fruit cup from lunch.” He noticed Dean wince when he said ‘fruit cup’ but he wasn’t sure why. It was about all he could save that wouldn’t have gone bad without refrigeration. Staff hadn’t left meal trays for Dean while he’d been out. They probably figured they’d wait until he woke instead of wasting food on him. 

“Crackers, I guess. Fruit cups remind me of being in that damn infirmary.”

_ Ah.  _ Sam got up to get the crackers and handed them over along with a water bottle that had come with one of the meals.

“Thanks, man,” Dean said, taking them both in a shaky grip.

“So...” Sam trailed, taking up residence on the edge of Dean’s bed, “what was solitary like?”

Dean opened the water bottle and took a drink before answering. “Sammy,” he said, “your tact knows no bounds.” He shook his head. “It’s a hell hole.”

“But what is it  _ like _ ?” Sam persisted, an intense look accompanying the frown on his face. “What  _ was _ it like?”

Dean looked at his younger brother and thought that even if he could remember much of anything, he probably wouldn’t tell him. It was mostly a blur, and anyway, he knew Sam thought it was his fault he was in there in the first place, his fault for really starting the fight. “It’s about as fun as you would expect. Don’t worry about it.” 

He bit into a cracker and wondered vaguely if he’d be able to keep it down. He wasn’t sure when the last time he’d eaten was, but he felt weak like it had been a while. He decided to change the subject. “So, what’s been happening while I’ve been gone?”

“Not a whole lot. This,” Sam gestured to the room, “is about it.”

Dean slowly chewed the bit of cracker, looking around the boring, sterile whiteness of the room. “Scintillating,” he said blandly.

“Excuse me?” Sam laughed a little with surprise.

“What?” Dean looked at him. “I didn’t go to college, so I’m not allowed to know stuff?” Challenge shaded his eyes.

Sam knew that look. That mildly defensive, warning look. “No, that’s not...” he said, shaking his head ruefully. He was trying to keep a straight face and tread lightly, really he was. “It’s just - well, where did you even learn a word like that? You don’t strike me as a reader, Dean.”

“Crossword puzzles,” Dean responded with an affirming nod and raised brows, green eyes daring him to say anything.

Sam held up his hands in defense, another laugh trying to weasel its way out of him. “Okay, I can dig that,” he coughed. “Just a way to pass some time.”

“Oh, shut up. You obviously haven’t been here long enough.” He leaned his head back on the pillows, far enough that he could look at the ceiling. “Just  _ try _ and find something worth reading in that so-called library of theirs.”

“I would, but I haven’t exactly had the freedom to explore the place.”

“Waste of time,” Dean assured him. 

“Will you take me there sometime?”

“To the library?” Dean gave him a disbelieving look. “What for? Bobby’s been spoiling you rotten with finding you decent stuff to read. Unless, of course....” Dean continued, sizing him up with a raised eyebrow, “you’ve been harboring a habit for tasteless chick romance novels. If so, bro, you’ll be in absolute heaven.”

“So you’ve read them?” Sam countered.

“No,” Dean denied. “Why would I read trash like that?” 

“Then how do you know they’re tasteless?”

“What are you, the connoisseur of crap reading? Of course they’re awful, they’re  **all** awful, by the very definition of the category ‘romance novel’. But if you feel compelled to catalog the levels and nuances of ‘shit’, then be my guest.”

Sam sat there, giving him a reserved, amused smile and said nothing.

“What??” Dean said with irritation.

“You’ve totally read them or you wouldn’t be so defensive,” Sam said smugly.

Dean gave him a stony look, trying to intimidate him into backing down. Sam just looked back, the smugness in his dark grey eyes increasing. Dean gave up, shrugging it off gruffly. “I was bored. Now shut up.”

“By the way,” Sam said, allowing him to regain some dignity by changing the subject, “Bobby said he’d be by tomorrow so he could give you a piece of his mind.”

“Ugh,” Dean sighed. “He had to wait till I was awake for that?”

“For some reason he’s under the impression that you’ll listen better that way.”

“Shows what he knows,” Dean said, tilting his head from side to side to stretch his neck. He brought his hand up to massage his left shoulder, and then his right. He felt stiff all over. Not to mention the state of his head, or the hunger-nausea, or any number of little things he felt plaguing him at the moment. He also couldn’t decide if he felt tired or rested.

“Your back bothering you?” Sam asked, giving him one of those concerned looks that also seemed to radiate,  _ Are you okay? How are you feeling?  _ as easily as if he spoke it.

“What  _ isn’t _ ?” he muttered. Between the meds and the self-hug jacket, not to mention the abysmal room he’d had the luxury of the past few days, he was in rough shape. He probably looked about as good as he felt. No wonder Sam was worried. It was kind of weird though, this was the first time someone was with him after one of these little vacations, especially someone who cared. He usually just suffered through them, recuperated, then put them right out of his mind, but Sam was making him think they might be even worse than he’d thought.

Sam moved further to the side of the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Here, sit up. I can work the knots out for you.”

“I’m fine,” Dean said, continuing to rub at his shoulder. “You don’t have to.” He had a feeling Sam was feeling obligated. He shouldn’t. 

Sam gave him an annoyed look. “I know. But I want to do  _ something _ . After all, it’s my fault you-”

“Sam,” Dean warned, holding up a hand. “Don’t you dare spout some crap to me about everything being your fault. Just don’t.”

“But-”

“Neither of us started it,” he said harshly, looking aside. “ _ They _ did. They threw first punches and everything. So just drop it, okay?”

He glanced at Sam covertly, just to see how his order was being taken, and saw that his jaw was starting to set in a stubborn fashion. There was also a trace of that angry pout about his lips. 

Dean realized he was staring at them when Sam started speaking, lips forming words, and he found himself nodding in agreement, having absolutely no idea what was being said. “What?”

“I said, move, so I can get at your back. I can’t massage it from the front.”

_ Massage from the front. _ Dean’s mind supplied some wonderful scenarios to that, none of which he’d be allowing himself to think about. Especially not with Sam right there. He could only hope the torrent of lewd thoughts milling about in his head were confined there and were not evident on his face. He sat up and slid forward, as asked, turning his back to Sam and wondering if a massage was really such a good idea.

Try as he might, he was still not doing a very good job of seeing Sam as merely his little brother. At all. But it was imperative that he do so.

Firm hands slid over his shoulders, thumbs rolling into the tenseness of muscle and Dean felt his belly tighten in response. Sam’s hands kneaded his shoulders and back unrelentingly, forcing a sigh from his lips as the pressure and strength of them created a sweet sort of pain that he was just melting into.  _ God, that feels good.  _ Tension was slipping from him in waves. When was the last time he’d had a massage? Nothing came to mind.

The only problem with this was that he was that the more relaxed he became, the more aware he was that it was  _ Sam’s _ hands smoothing down his arms, over his shoulders and all the way up his spine. Sam’s hands that were so gentle on his neck, rubbing light circles, and soothing with the trail of fingertips. Dean’s eyes drifted closed as they slid higher, ruffling his hair as they massaged lightly over his skull. He found himself reminded of the way Sam’s hands had felt in his hair as he’d kissed him, how erotic that had been, and how perfect, as Sam’s mouth had grazed and joined with his. 

This was probably a bad idea. His imagination was getting the better of him with fuel like this - the feel of Sam so close to him. Desire was a razor-blade that was sharpening itself with every movement of those hands upon his body. 

He could feel pleasure beating through him languidly, pulsing. Hungry but patient, for the moment.

“Better?” Sam murmured.

Dean felt his head spin a little at the voice in his ear, lust rising like the shifting swell of a wave, then easing back again as it danced with reason. “Yeah,” he said, knowing his voice sounded too deep.

He laid down on his side, without looking at Sam, keeping his back turned, and tried to soothe the beast in him. It wanted Sam, and Sam was about the last person in the world that it should ever have. 

The bed shifted as Sam got up and he heard the light click off. He breathed a sigh of relief, no longer having to worry about the expressions on his face. He could probably sleep this off. No way he was getting caught taking care of himself.

Again the bed shifted under Sam’s weight and Dean realized with a start that Sam was going to stay with him.

“Hey,” he said in what he hoped was a drowsy sounding voice. “What’re you doing?”

“Keeping you company,” was the softly husky reply. “You were by yourself for days.”

“Mmn.” Dean jammed his hands under his pillow and pretended to settle more comfortably onto his side, curling up a bit. He was so wide awake right now, it wasn’t even funny. “Bed’s kinda small, dontcha think?” He could feel the heat of Sam’s side against his back.

“Guess so.” He felt Sam shift and then was aware of the full length of his body aligned with his own. Legs brushed his, a thigh resting just below his ass, and Sam’s head was tipped against his back. “...but maybe I kinda wanted company, too.”

Dean bit his lip; he was fighting so hard with himself right now. 

Goddamnit, what was Sam trying to do to him? Why did he have to be so damn innocent? The urge to roll over and pull Sam’s mouth to his, to hike a leg up between his and feel the press of his body was brutal.

They weren’t kids anymore. Sam couldn’t just climb into his bed like he used to, looking for comfort. He couldn’t just fall asleep safe and sound. Things were different now.  _ He _ was different.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You mind if I stay here?”

“Nah.” Dean didn’t have the heart to tell him. Didn’t have the heart to explain just how different and messed up things had actually become. Nostalgia for the old days was sharp and bitter within him. How much easier it had been back then, back when they were kids and their dad  _ expected _ him to put Sammy firmly at the center of his universe and protect him from everything that went  _ bump _ in the night. 

But now they were older, and no one was telling him to do that anymore. 

Sam was his whole world, but he was no longer supposed to be.

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title from the below song. (Picked pertaining to Doc Walter and also Miles, the two less-than-gentle gents from this installment, but also for mood. The frantic-ness of it makes me think of the medication scene in solitary.) 

This is one of those mostly instrumental tracks, but it is so good and has some parts that I just think are amazing with how they build on each other, swell, and create such a frantic pace at times, even as there is an ethereal thread haunting it in the background. There were no ‘lyrics’ posted online, so I tried my hand at capturing the song. My favorite part aside from the vocal harmonies they do in this, is the instrumental bit near the end - before the part where I note a music ‘break’. Ah, so good.

**Infected Mushroom - “Vicious Delicious”**

[music, gritty, beats, building]

_ BOOM _

(ahhhahhh)

ba- _ BOOM _

(eyYEAahhh)

_ BOOM  _

(aahhAAaahh  _ AAahhh _ )

( _ OoooOooh _ )

ba- _ BOOM _

(eyYEAahhh)

_ BOOM  _

(ahhhahhh)

ba- _ BOOM  _

(eyYEAahhh)

_ BOOM  _

(aahhAAaahh  _ AAahhh _ )

ba- _ BOOM  _

(eyYEAahhh)

[music, voice distortions, beats, building]

_ BOOM _

ka- _ BOOM _

[x4]

[music, swelling, frantic]

[music -break-] 

[calmer instrumental]

laaaaEeeeAhhhh

laaaaEeeeAhhhhaaaa

laaaaEeeeAhhhhAaaaaaaah

laaaaEEeeeeeAhhhhhhhh _ Aaaaaaaahh _

  
  



	13. Special Place

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 13: Special Place  

Sam slept fitfully, dreams plaguing him. There was Mom’s face, drifting in front of him like a phantom, her eyes flickering between their normal color and a swampy black, set into a morbid skull. The images flickered back and forth, as if contained in flashes of lightning - a dark version and a bright version.

He stumbled, running suddenly, and was slipping on something slick. Catching himself and continuing on, he realized his hands were red. It was blood that clung stickily to his skin and clothes. And there was a lake of it to his right, amongst the reedy grass, surrounded by trees. It was the park, and there was a pale, gorged moon on the horizon. Jess, his girlfriend, was lying in the reeds, half in the lake. He scrambled to her, and her dead eyes seemed to be watching him, telling him something. Her limp hand on the grass was pointing.

He turned to look and saw the hallway in Oak Grove, where he’d seen Dean and Gordon arguing. They were there now, circling each other, a feral light in both of their eyes.

“Dean!” he called out. Maybe he could stop it this time.

But Dean did not seem to hear him. As if in slow motion, he pulled a gun out of his leather jacket. Sam ran, ran hard to get to him, but the scene was not getting any closer.

The blast was deafening, blood spraying Sam’s face as he suddenly found himself standing next to them. Gordon was smiling as he fell, a blossom of red fanning out from the left side of his chest where his ruined heart would be. He fell, and the sound was like a lead weight smashing the ground.

Hands gripped Sam’s shoulders, and Dean was turning him so that they were face to face. His brother looked emotionless, just a faint, unreal smile upon his lips. It was at odds with the look in his eyes. Flat. Aggrieved. Flat. Anguished. Flat. “Dad always said to get them through the heart,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

“Them? Who? Dean, what are you talking about?”

Dean’s face swam closer and his hand reached up to caress Sam’s cheek, smearing the blood there. “The monsters.”

“But Gordon was human,” Sam persisted, eyes flicking to the dead man on the floor. He felt sick and couldn’t get the smell of blood out of his nose.

“Really?” Dean’s brows rose a little and he looked nonplussed as he regarded his kill. “Huh, maybe you’re right.”

His green eyes swung back to Sam, an intense look in them. His hand trailed down the side of Sam’s face, stopping at his lips. After a moment, his fingers continued on, tracing the lower one with slow, avid concentration. He started to lean in, pulled forward as if on strings.

“W-What are you doing?” Sam felt slightly panicked.

“Shhh.” Dean’s lips brushed his. “Don’t let Dad find out.”

Then Dean was kissing him, and Sam couldn’t make himself put an end to it. Dean’s hands were cupping his face, as if he were drinking from a chalice. The devil’s cup. Ornate, golden, tempting, and  _ wrong _ .

He knew it was wrong, and yet he couldn’t quit the feeling of it - he wanted this. God help him, he wanted this.

Dean pulled back just enough to speak. “You have no idea how badly I want this.” His voice was husky. Their foreheads pressed together, and he caught a glimpse of intense green. “You think it’s just you, but it isn’t. And it’s so much worse for me.” Dean’s mouth bent to his neck, tasting, teasing. Biting.

It ran through Sam in a furious rush of desire. Every touch was spiking it, every lick, every kiss, even the bites that grew increasingly harder. Even the sharp pain of one that felt like needle pricks in his skin. He clapped his hand to his neck and his fingers came away with tiny trails of blood.

Dean was watching him like a cat, expression closed. “Sometimes, when they stick you, it makes you forget.”

Sam’s eyes flew open and his breathing was harsh in the silence of the darkened room he shared with Dean. Conflicted emotions burbled in him - confusion, fear, lust. He felt as if an oppressive cloud had descended upon him, trying to choke him in its blackness.

These... waking dreams, as he’d started to call them, they were getting more intense. He didn’t have them all that often, but he’d experienced them off and on since he was a kid. They were almost hyper real, psychedelic, and... on occasion... they seemed to hold a grain of truth. He’d had several since coming to this place.  

He wanted no parts of it. They were disorienting and disturbing.

“Sammy?” Dean’s sleep-filled voice murmured.

Sam’s eyes flicked towards him, and his face was as close as it had been in the dream. Close enough to kiss. And that wasn’t all. Dean’s head was resting on the pillow above Sam’s shoulder, but his body was sprawled out over Sam’s, one of his brother’s legs twined around one of his.

Sam’s face flushed hot with embarrassment. It was still fresh in his mind, the touch of Dean’s mouth against his, and the desire for that to recur in the waking world speared through him. He fought against it as hard as he could.

“Sam?” Dean sounded marginally awake now, his head lifting from Sam’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he breathed out as Dean’s body shifted against his. Pleasure fluttered in his belly, persisting even through his denial. It stirred currents in his blood, messing with his head, shortening his breath. He could make out his brother’s face hovering near his, concerned, and he damned himself for entertaining the thought of being kissed for even a second. He was willing it to happen almost as fervently as he was willing it  _ not _ to happen.

“You sure?” Dean sounded like he didn’t believe him. “You sound kind of strange.”

_ Panic. _

“Well, you’re kind of laying all over me,” Sam said pointedly, trying to put the pressure on Dean instead of himself. “So it’s a little awkward, here.”

“You’re the one who climbed into my bed.” Dean wasn’t taking the bait. “You know I’m a messy sleeper.” He shifted again, like he was starting to get up, and his hip pressed against Sam’s growing arousal.

Sam stifled the noise that fled his mouth.  _ Crap. _

“Dreaming about something good?” Dean tried to joke, but Sam felt the tension in his body and wasn’t fooled. This was officially a FUBAR situation. Dean could never know the thoughts he’d been having. “And here I thought you were having a nightmare with all that heavy breathing,” his brother added probingly.

Sam’s face flushed with embarrassment and he was glad the room was dark enough to keep that a secret.

“I was dreaming about Jess,” he said stiffly. Mentioning the actual nightmare would probably be more trouble than it was worth, so he kept that to himself. Again, he apologized to his girlfriend’s spirit, wherever it was, feeling guilty as hell that she’d never been capable of making him feel this way. Using her as a scapegoat now was low, he knew that. 

“Well, she must’ve been built like a brick house if getting tangled up with me made you dream about being with  _ her _ .”

“Shut up,” Sam snapped, bristling at the insult to his deceased, would-be fiance. But that wasn’t all. There was also the implication that lay beneath the words, that he couldn’t possibly have made that sort of mistake, even in sleep. That he  _ knew _ . And of course he knew, that was the problem. He knew  _ exactly _ who was making his heart race against his will. “You never even met her,” he said tersely. “She was gorgeous.” Guilt was making him extra defensive. Poor Jess had died because of him, and he could hardly remember now what he’d liked so much about her; his head was too filled with Dean.

“That so?” Dean said somewhat rudely. “Too bad you’ll never be seeing her again.”

“Asshole!” Sam shoved at him, horrified. He couldn’t believe the nerve of his brother, saying something like that. “She’s  _ dead _ . Where do you get off talking like that?”

“Yeah, that’s me, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was flippant and dark. “Nothing but a low class asshole.” He grabbed Sam’s arms, pinning them to the bed next to his head, body stretching out over his to do it. Their gazes clashed. “Nothing but a jealous son of a bitch, thinking about how you got to go off to college, have a  _ life _ , while I was stuck with Dad. When he was around, that is.”

Sam was finding it difficult to focus. His body was shaking against Dean’s, becoming overwhelmed by their proximity and the desire it fostered. And yet their conversation was making him angry and confused. “But you chose-”

“To stay with him? Yeah.” Secretive, green eyes tilted at him, their color muted in the shadows. “But I always wondered what your life would have been like. How much easier it would have been than being dropped by mom, and later falling in  _ here _ .”

“Why  _ are _ you here, Dean?”

Dean lowered his mouth to Sam’s ear. “Obviously because I’m insane,” he said, brushing the lobe of it with his lips. 

Sam shuddered and his eyes fluttered shut. “Stop it, Dean, you’re not crazy.”

Warm breath fanned his ear, Dean’s mouth not straying far. It made his heart dance heavily in his throat. Lips grazed delicate flesh. “Oh, yes,” he said softly, turning his head in closer to Sam’s, violating his personal space beyond reason. “You have no idea.”

Something Dean had said to him in the dream flitted back to him.  _ ‘You have no idea how badly I want this. You think it’s just you, but it isn’t.’  _

Was that... possible? Or was it just some random misfiring of his brain? It had to be coincidence... but, there was an overwhelming sense of  _ deja vu _ .

“Dean, maybe you should let me up,” Sam said thickly. It was almost scarier if they both felt this way. There’d be nothing to stop it.

As it was, he could feel every contour of Dean’s body against his, and the strength in his brother’s arms as they pinned his own. He strained against the hold, finding he was firmly pinioned; and all that did was just focus the sick desire even more firmly upon Dean.

* * *

Everything in Dean’s being was screaming for him to halt. All except for whatever bits were responsible for controlling his motor skills, and perhaps his inhibitions. It was like being incredibly drunk, or asleep.

He’d been so jealous hearing about Sam’s dead girlfriend whom he was still hung up on. It made him angry, territorial, and possibly even irrationally stupid - playing to his desire like this and risking so much. The one overwhelming thought in his head was,  _ You want this,  _ **_too_ ** . He wanted to revoke the importance of the girl who’d weaseled in close to his little brother and made him smitten. But he shouldn’t, especially not like this. 

And yet, here he had Sam pinned beneath him, panting and half aroused from some stupid dream, and he was pushing his luck, pushing the bounds of decency. It seemed like it was only when they were fighting that they could be close like this and have it be okay. But anger was fading as he spoke against Sam’s ear and felt him shudder, leaving only the _ wanting _ .

He was slipping farther down the path of no return, courting a flame that would never be able to be put out. It would devour everything. 

Was it the medication he’d been plied with the past few days that was making this so surreal and inescapable? He played at Sam’s ear, feeling the softness of it under his mouth and wanting to test it with his teeth. Could he really blame this sort of acting out upon that? Would Sam let him?

“Dean, maybe you should let me up.” Sam sounded affected. Uncertain. 

Dean’s eyes had mostly adjusted to the near dark and he found he liked the tormented expression on Sam’s face. He leaned in, threatening the sanctity of Sam’s lips. He could see the feelings his brother had towards him, and the doubt and fear at having him close like this. It made him feel appeased, maybe even special, that Sam would allow himself to be thrown into such turmoil instead of rejecting him outright - instead of pushing him away. He lowered his lips to Sam’s and felt the texture of them. The dry heat.

This was different from before. A conscious decision this time, instead of acting mindlessly in the moment. He slid his tongue along the seam of Sam’s lips, detecting something there that he wanted access to. When Sam’s lips parted in a slightly ragged breath, he thrust his tongue inside, claiming him anew. It was still a novel experience. He’d kissed girls before, plenty of them. But Sam was different. Sam was used to being strong, used to being in control of encounters like this. His weakness at this moment of trespass, and his fear of breaking this taboo, it translated into the kiss, making it all the more precious and intoxicating.

Dean tasted him, taking his time to explore and he felt Sam respond to him. It was in his mouth, the tautness of his body, and the muffled sound of his pleasure.

He felt Sam’s arms flex against his hold, still putting up paltry resistance. It stoked the fire that had been living in ragged streaks inside of him. He exerted more force into his grip, and dared to roll his hips against his brother’s, causing Sam’s body to jerk and shudder against his. He repeated the motion and Sam was moaning into his mouth, adding fuel to the fire.

_ I’m going to hell for this. _

He released one of Sam’s arms, almost inviting him to stop this from progressing, trailing his hand down the length of his lean body. He even relinquished the sultry heat of his mouth, opting to explore the side of his neck as his hand brushed down Sam’s stomach and lower.

He discovered Sam’s neck to be quite sensitive and he teased it mercilessly, making Sam writhe beneath him. His skin was hot to the touch beneath his shirt. His stomach was flat, toned, and skipping beneath his fingers. Sam’s pulse was jumping in his throat, practically beating upon Dean’s tongue, and his breathing was rough.

As he traced a hand up Sam’s thigh, barely skirting his arousal, his brother jumped. “Wait, Dean,” he said in a winded voice. “This... we can’t...”  

“Can’t what?”

If Sam couldn’t properly voice what he was objecting to, Dean wasn’t going to pay him any mind, even if he did know exactly what was going on in his brother’s head. He felt drunk on Sam’s reactions and wanted more. And more was such a tiny step from where they were now. Why should they stop, when they’d already strayed so far off the path that even denial would be hard pressed to save them?

“ _ This _ ,” Sam emphasized. His eyes looked a little wild. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

Dean gave him a lazy, hooded stare. “Say we stop here,” he said, his voice low and hard. Sam’s scent was driving him crazy, he could smell it, taste it. His brother was as aroused as he was, painfully so. “ _ Tell  _ me we wouldn’t go stroke ourselves off afterwards, while thinking about  _ exactly _ what we were just going to do.” Stopping now made it only a difference between doing a deed first-hand or vicariously through the imagination. It was still the same sin. Sam had to understand that. Running away changed nothing. 

“T-That’s,” Sam stammered, startled. His voice gained strength a moment later and was full of conviction. “That’s not what would happen.”

“No?” Dean said, iron in his voice. Sam was trying to back out, to deny it. He wouldn’t let him. “Isn’t that exactly what happened before? Don’t lie to me. I heard you in the shower.”

“That had nothing to do with you!” Deep grey eyes flashed in the dark.

“Sammy,” Dean growled, “I can tell when you’re lying to me.”

“Not all the time,” Sam muttered, jaw clenching. His wavy bangs scattered across his forehead almost as defiantly.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Sam said stonily. “And don’t even try to come off sounding all big when you have a constant stream of lies pouring from your mouth.”

“I lied about _ one _ thing,” Dean said, pulling back, “and I already apologized profusely for it.”

“Oh, right, about us being related,” Sam flung out sarcastically. “Then how about that half-assed apology for kissing me before, then saying it was just camouflage so I didn’t figure out it was you? Is what we’re doing right now camouflage, Dean? And from what? From right here it looks like ‘camouflage’ was just another bald-faced lie.”

“No,” Dean corrected slowly, irritation spiking, “right now we’re fighting. As it should be.” He pulled further away from Sam, gaining some needed distance. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he muttered, backtracking already. “This medication must be fucking with my head.”

“Great,” Sam ground out, “so now  _ you _ have a convenient excuse to hide behind, but what about me?”

Dean looked him over, a deadpan expression on his face. God help him, it was hard to miss the deep color of that kiss-bruised mouth, and it called to him strongly, even though Sam was making him want to smack him.  “You’re a poor sap who’s so hung up on his dead girlfriend that he wasn’t in his right mind after having a dream about her.” It came off sounding antagonistic, even though Dean had merely meant to show him how easily he could explain it away.

Sam shook his head and glared at him. “Convenient, if only it were true,” he shot back. “But I wasn’t dreaming about Jess. I lied. I was dreaming about  _ you _ .”

_ Jesus.  _ Dean put a hand over his face.  _ What the hell is he thinking saying something like that?  _ “Why the hell you gotta tell me that, Sam? What do you expect me to do?” He’d been running from this for so long and he was tired. Tired of fighting it. He couldn’t protect Sam from these debased urges if Sam wouldn’t protect himself. “You’re right, this shouldn’t happen. But it keeps coming up and I can’t get away from it.”

He just wanted to give in. He’d never be able to outlast this in the long run.

He was such a failure as a brother.

“Is that why you wanted to change rooms?” Sam asked. “The  _ real _ reason?”

Maybe Sam could keep him talking and get him through this, however. The lust that had been clouding and choking him was abating somewhat and he was starting to remember the feel of his resolve.

“Yeah.” Dean looked anywhere but his face. “And you were pissed at me. I really had thought it might help.”

“Instead, we end up  _ here _ .”

Dean got defensive. “I didn’t know they’d put us back in the same room again.”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m saying, it didn’t help. It didn’t  _ change _ anything. If anything, I think it might have done more harm than good.”

“Ok,  _ Mr. Stanford _ , please enlighten me, because that sounds completely mental.”

Sam shook his head, trying to find words. “It’s like... we were trying to have a fight, and hash things out, but then you took the means away. There was no way to resolve anything, especially being in separate rooms. And all that served to do was put us on edge which was a setup for what happened in the cafeteria.” 

His voice sank into the tones he used when he was trying to get through to someone empathetically, and had a quiet sort of urgency, “I think that’s why Bobby put us back in the same room. So we could  _ talk _ .” He firmly emphasized the word ‘talk’ as if reminding them of what they  _ should _ have been doing all this time, instead of what they  _ were _ doing. 

“Well, won’t he be disappointed,” Dean said under his breath.

“We need to work this out, Dean,” Sam insisted. “This...” he faltered a little. “We hadn’t even seen each other in years. We have to remember how to be family again.”

“We?” Dean scoffed bitterly. “ **I** never forgot. Maybe  _ you _ did.” He shook his head. “But I just... I can’t see you the same way anymore. I’m sorry.” 

“You need to _ try _ .”

“Sammy, I’m telling you, I  **_can’t_ ** .” Dean felt frustration peaking as Sam’s careless insistence smacked aside his efforts. “All I’ve been doing is trying and it isn’t fucking working.” He slid off the bed and grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it.

“Where are you going?”

“I need some space,” he said shortly. He tried the door and it wasn’t locked from the outside. Lucky him. 

He stalked down the hall quietly, knowing and not caring that he was breaking curfew. If they’d realized he’d wake up tonight, they’d probably have locked him in. Sam, on the other hand, he was a regular boy scout who obeyed the rules so they needn’t have bothered. You’d be hard pressed to find even one toe of his out of line.

So how was it that Sam’d had so very much out of line just a short while ago? Only to then twist everything around and make it sound like a little talking could bring them around? How could talking possibly change or erase what was growing between them? It pissed him off that Sam was acting like he hadn’t thought deeply on the matter, that he hadn’t been struggling with it and fighting with himself to leave things be.

It was so much harder to bear like this - Sam practically admitting to feeling the same way, then wanting to pretend,  _ together _ , that everything was normal and peachy fucking keen.

He needed to have Bobby switch their rooms back, no matter what Sam thought. He’d go insane trying to keep his distance.

The community locker room and bathing area was deserted and dark as he entered it. Appropriate for this time of night. The sickly green blue tiles and the grungy look of the place were enough to make you expect to see blood slung about everywhere or something equally gruesome. He knew it was cleaned daily, but the room looked grimy and forlorn, blackened in the edges, like it hadn’t been used for a few decades.

He ignored such details, like he always did, and moved further inside.

He had not been joking when he said to Sam that stopping where they did wouldn’t really save them. He’d been dead serious. The _ need  _ wouldn’t stop just because they did, and it still demanded an outlet. It reared its vicious, ugly head even as he locked himself into a stall, preparing to deal with it. It swarmed him with greedy, grasping fingers, as he took himself in hand, unmaking his resistance and worming its way into his thoughts, taking them over.

It put Sam before him, practically on a silver platter. 

There was no resistance this time. No stalling words. No clinging questions of morality. Just the feel of bare skin and heat.

There was just the damning pleasure he couldn’t fight against. He corrupted them with it in his thoughts as he sank into Sam in both mind and body, craving the euphoria like a beast, crushing Sam’s mouth beneath his.

He leaned against the wall, head tilting back as his body shook with desperate desire, flesh hard in his hand. He’d never let his thoughts go this far before. Always, he’d stopped himself from even starting to imagine it, what it would be like to penetrate the body he craved. And he hadn’t intended to go very far tonight either. He was just opening the doorway and seeing if Sam would cross the threshold. He’d just wanted to touch, and taste a little.

But a little was leading to a lot more in his head, and it was breaking the seals on his restraint. 

He was so drunk on desire he felt sick.

His heart was beating double time and the vision in his head was too real as he thrust into his hand. It was Sam he felt around him, Sam who was leaning into him, fucking his mouth with his tongue as Dean’s body shuddered violently.

Release was sharp, intense, but the craving remained. 

He slid down the wall, body shaking with aftershocks. His mind felt like a blown fuse. 

It was best not to think.

He closed his eyes and focused on catching his breath.

There was an idea floating around in his head, a place he’d been planning to go after here. Now was the perfect chance, being the first time in a long while that he hadn’t been under lock and key. It was time to see what it was like underground. Providing he could get into the cafeteria. He needed salt... he was fresh out.

The lighter was still in his jacket pocket, in case he discovered anything he needed to burn. The problem was accelerant. But maybe the kitchens would have something useful.

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title from the song below. This one is instrumental for the first half, fyi. I also really was stuck on “Killing Time” while writing this chapter. (But I already posted that song, so I’m just mentioning it. And re-posting a snippet. ^^ )

_ (So how can it be) _

_ The color of the world had turned dark on me _

_ (Falling free) _

_ Losing my reflection and my clarity _

_ (Talk to me) _

_ I feel the sickness taking over me _

  
  


**Infected Mushroom - “Special Place”**

Turning back, turning back,

to my special place.

Give it up, give it up

all the fears we shaaare.

Turning back, turning back,

to my special place.

Give it up give it up

all the fears we shaaare.

And i just don't cAaare,

all the fears we shaaare,

and i just don't cAaare.

[Bridge] x9

Bring it up bring it up, Don't take it dooown

bring it up bring it up

_ bring it up bring it up _

_ bring it up bring it up _

_ bring it up bring it uUuuuuup _

Turning back, turning back,

to my special place.

Give it up, give it up

all the fears we shaaare.

Turning back, turning back,

to my special place.

Give it up give it up

all the fears we shaaare.

And i just don't cAaare,

all the fears we shaaare.

And i just don't cAaare,

all the fears we shaaare.

And i just don't cAaare,

all the fears we shaaare.

And i just don't cAAAaaaaaare.


	14. Legend of the Black Shawarma

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 14: Legend of the Black Shawarma  

Dean made his way down into the basement, following the bobbing circle of light his flashlight threw on the floor. His raid on the kitchen had been a success. He’d grabbed a canister of salt which had a convenient metal pour spout, a bottle of lighter fluid for the grill the food staff sometimes cooked on outside, and a pair of full salt shakers, just in case. He’d even scrounged himself up a pretty damn good sandwich. It was already hitting his system, clearing his head and making him feel much better than before.

The staffers had everything locked up tight, but getting in had been easy. They never had discovered the lock picks hidden inside the lining of his jacket. He’d modded the jacket years ago, finding pockets to be iffy in a scuffle and inconvenient when someone decided to search him. At the inside seam, just under the left arm, he’d attached tiny loops to the inner side of the leather, into which the picks could sit until they were needed. He’d soldered a washer onto the bottoms of the metal tools and hung them upside-down which kept them from slipping through the loops. They were short-handled, too, which, along with the stiffness of the leather jacket, made them hard to notice in a pat down. He had done the same with the other side, storing the other half of the set to make it feel even. 

Metal detectors were still sort of an issue, so he’d had the buttons and snaps on the jacket switched to ones that were made of a heavily copper-based material. Like really old pennies, they would make detectors go nuts. The hand units would ping especially hard going over the closures along the front of the jacket, convincing whomever was holding it that it was probably the one and only culprit. It wouldn’t work on someone who was particularly sharp or determined, who might investigate more thoroughly, but it had worked thus far. In his experience, anyone working a 40+ hour a week job was bound to get bored and unmotivated and lacking in initiative. Didn’t matter if it was a secretary, a mechanic or a police officer. People were essentially all the same underneath.

_ Speaking of mechanics,  _ he thought distractedly as he pulled out some of his picks for the double metal doors that led to the tunnels,  _ I miss having a car to work on _ . A chain was looped through the handles, a heavy lock securing it. He set to work, the pen flashlight in his teeth providing illumination, and wondered how his father had ended up in the spook business. He’d never really talked about it. He’d just trained Dean either in that or on fixing cars, his paying line of work, and there wasn’t much conversation otherwise.

_ Dad, you were a kind of shitty role model, you know that? _

The Impala had temporarily been his, for a few years even, but John decided he wanted it back when he got out of the mental hospital. Dean had argued with him, being rather partial to the car himself, but his dad pulled the “it reminds me of your mother, and better times” card and he’d had to admit defeat.  _ Stubborn sonuvabitch. _

His consolation prize was a light teal 1974 Volkswagen Rabbit, a thoroughly embarrassing car to be seen in. It was like driving around in a freaking clown car. Tiny, no trunk, hardly any leg room. It did ride nice, though.

He was pretty sure his dad was fucking with him over the color. He’d refinished it for Dean as a birthday present, as it was down to bare metal. It was supposed to be painted dark green, black, burnt orange, or some other reasonable color. His dad claimed that his friend who was doing him a favor had just used whatever he had on hand. 

_ Fucking light teal,  _ he thought, shaking his head. Who the hell paints a car that color?

The lock clicked, dropping its pants for him, and it reminded him of how hard it was to get laid after anyone had caught sight of him in the Rabbit. He’d taken to  _ walking _ to bars, just to up his chances. Better a poor bastard with no car, than a car like that. It was a chick car. He’d actually, mortifyingly enough, been congratulated on how ‘cute’ it was by a few girls he’d been trying to hook up with, which was a total buzz-kill and could throw him off his game for a good week or more. After the third time it happened, he gave up and wouldn’t be caught dead in the thing unless he was working.

His dad had had a good laugh over it on more times than one.

_ Dad...  _

It wasn’t all bad, staying with him. Not by any means. They’d managed to be pretty close, harassment and all. He wasn’t sure how he felt about not hearing from his father in the time he’d been in the hospitals... But his dad wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely type. Besides, what would he say? 

_ ‘Sorry they got you’? _

_ ‘Nice going, screwing up a job and getting picked up by the padded wagon’? _

_ ‘You disappoint me, son’? _

_ ‘Better luck next time’? _

He stashed the picks back in his jacket, feeling irritation again over his massive fuck up. One mistake, and he was still paying for it years later. Consolation #1 being that he’d at least gotten to see Sam, for the first time in ages, before it happened. Consolation #2, sort of... he’d been reunited with him, here, of all places. But he still did wonder how it might have gone if he’d just walked up to him and said,  _ ‘Hey, it’s me.’  _ Maybe they’d be at some local dive, sharing a beer and checking out the home-grown T&A.

Ah, but then again, Sammy wasn’t the type. He’d probably shoot him that ‘you’re pathetic’, superior sort of prissy look he got sometimes.  _ Then I could go on to point out how he has a severe lacking in knowing-how-to-have-fun. He’s totally wasting his college experience. _

But he liked hanging around Sam. Liked harassing him. 

Something about his goody-two-shoes mentality managed to click with him, instead of bugging him, though he gave Sam all sorts of crap over it. Sam had integrity and a sort of brightness to him that was appealing. He just liked being around it.

He might look at nearly every girl with two legs and a halfway decent face, but they were forgotten just as quick. Sam was just different. He’d thought, once upon a time, that it was because they were family, but he’d known enough other people now to understand that plenty of families were about as close as enemies. They certainly didn’t have some self-sacrificing martyrdom complex, or a decade long obsession.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. He was trying  _ not _ to think of Sam, here. He had work to do. He didn’t need to be spacing out.

He unwrapped the chain from the handles and put the lock in his pocket so it couldn’t be used to seal him in accidentally, then swung the metal doors wide. They made an ungodly scraping noise that made the hair stand up on his arms. The blackened hallway they led into smelled of must and rats. He picked up the canister of salt and the lighter fluid in one hand and trained the pen light into the opening with his other. It was square, the corridor, and pipes ran along the right hand edge of the ceiling. It looked creepy as hell, even though the walls were painted white. Pitch blackness swallowed everything past the weak circle of light.

He shrugged and headed inside. 

From what he’d gathered, Oak Grove Sanitarium used to be quite a well-known place back in the day. At one time, there were thousands of the mentally ill housed here. Though at a certain point, they suddenly began dropping like flies. Somehow, no one knew what was going on. It was a big fucking mystery that smelled of a cover-up.

He figured it was probably some crazy ass doctors who were more fucked in the head than their patients and were trying out various ‘remedies’. This was all back in the time of electric shock therapy and clumsy lobotomies. He sure as hell was grateful the reforms cut a lot of that out of the programs before he was landed here. People were capable of some freaky shit.

He scanned the hall as he walked, sweeping the light in a steady, exploratory zigzag. He noticed spots of dim, pale light from time to time near the ceiling. It was watery moonlight seeping in through glass block at regular intervals, probably at ground level on the outside.

This place would have some decent lighting during the day. Enough to see by, at least. 

About 10 minutes in, he came to the first room on the left hand side. He tried the handle and found it to be unlocked, though it was rusty and turned with difficulty. Loose dirt and debris made the door sluggish, and he had to push against it with his shoulder to force it open.

He shone his light inside, and it skimmed off of wooden chairs, a couple of school desks, and an open shower stall on the back wall, partially obscured by a ratty curtain on a rack. He eased inside, mindful of the junk that lay in piles on the floor. There were some kid’s toys, some canned food stacked into a tower, an old basketball. He frowned. It was almost like a storage room. Or a doctor’s waiting room, what with the odds and ends to keep a child occupied. 

A shuffling scrape came from the back corner and he tensed, whipping his light over the area.

Something like whispers or the rustling of dry leaves sounded faintly to his left. No, to his right. 

_ “Shhhhhh.” _

A faint hiss, like an exhale, sounded behind him, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He turned, flinging a handful of salt in the same motion, and the sensation ceased. He brought the light back up, sweeping the area again, seeing nothing between him and the rigid metal door frame that opened into the ominously blackened hallway. The walls of this room were painted white, too, like much of the facility but age and the elements had discolored the walls. The ugly orange of water and erosion damage stained them in patches near the ceiling.

He noticed a wooden chair in the back that looked strange to him, so he went to check it out. It was a stiff, unforgiving thing that had to beyond uncomfortable. There was nothing around it, really, just more of the same debris. Wadded papers and cloth here and there. More kid’s toys. Metal bands were attached to the arms, that lay open in a broken circle. Looked like restraints. 

He’d seen something like it before. In school once, a teacher had been discussing various states in the US and their stances on corporal punishment. There’d been an old black and white picture of a chair, dubbed “Old Sparky”. It was a lovely contraption for electrocuting people, and the nickname was good across many of the states that used electric chairs for execution. The picture was of a chair in Arkansas. It had had leather buckle restraints on it, unlike this one.

Dean stepped over a broken rocking horse toy and sat in it, resting his arms upon the arms of the chair. The curve of the metal restraints were cold under his wrists. He closed one upon his right wrist and it was tight enough that he’d never be able to slip it. Two holes lined up on the outside, big enough to slip a lock through. That had to be a horrible feeling - being trapped like that, both arms immobile, for god knows what do be done to you. 

He flexed his hand and felt grooves beneath his fingers, furrows upon the arm of the chair that matched the path his fingers took if he drew them to his fist upon the wood. _ Gouged by someone’s nails. _

He shone the light upon it and the wood looked stained.

_ Blood? _

Another scuffing noise caught his attention.

He took his hand out of the metal cuff and arced the pen light’s beam out over the room. Nothing.

There hadn’t been anything else in the room that looked like remains. No hair, bones, or whatnot. But the blood on the chair, if that’s what it was, could certainly be a problem. It was best to burn it.

Keeping the light sweeping the room in surveillance, he reached behind him, shaking salt upon the chair. Then he set the canister down and picked up the bottle of lighter fluid, squeezing a stream upon the chair.

Still, he saw nothing, though there was a claustrophobic pressure encroaching upon the space, thick with the feel of withheld whispers.

He traded the lighter fluid for the lighter in his pocket and touched the flame to the arm of the chair. It flared as it caught fire, following the paths of fluid and brightening the room as the wood started to burn.

After a few minutes of waiting, he decided to just kick all the surrounding junk out of the way and let the thing burn on its own. The walls of the room were concrete and the door was metal. Really, the whole room could light up and it wouldn’t be in danger of burning this place down.

There was a lot more to check out down here and he didn’t have unlimited time.

The next room of note was a locked one. He set at it with his picks, training the pen light on the lock with his teeth. It was also severely rusted which made it take longer to crack. His jaw started to ache around the metal barrel he held in his mouth. Finally, with a crunch, it gave way.

This door also required some muscle to force open. The room itself seemed much cleaner and in less disrepair. The floor was some slick surface, reminiscent of linoleum tile. Kind of like what was in the infirmary.

He swung his light around. In this fairly barren room, there were what looked like large animal cages on stands with wheels. There were a lot of them. Maybe seven, all crowded along the right hand wall. Upon closer inspection, the floor of each one was lined with a mattress, the size of which a small child might use. Many were stained, implying their occupants were caged for long stretches at a time.

_ Man, _ he thought in disgust,  **_people._ **

He’d rather deal with monsters. They made more sense.

He swung his beam of light up as he turned to go deeper into the room and jumped back as it caught upon a face just in front of him. The apparition flickered, eyes rolling and head tilting at an unnatural angle. It was a female, black, though her skin looked pale, and she wore a dated white straight jacket. Red bled through, seeping through the material like she’d been sliced all over. 

_ Could be why  _ this  _ room was locked _ , he thought drolly.

Dean took a few quick steps back as she focused upon him, solidifying. Her face, framed by long, tightly curled black hair, bore lacerations as well. Her mouth began dripping blood as she looked up at him with curdled hatred.

He had a feeling this one was going to be a problem. Where was a gun loaded with rock salt shells when you needed one?

She bared her teeth at him and the blood bubbled like red foam.

His pen light began flickering madly.

He backed up double time, aiming for the relative safety of the hall, dropping the bottle of lighter fluid to better free up his hands for the salt. Holding the pen light with his thumb, he began to pour salt into the palm of his hand as he retreated.

The image pulsed and she disappeared, reappearing at the back of the room, nose in the corner. She was still except for her heaving shoulders. The cages started to rattle around him. Slightly at first, but then increasingly harder.

_ Yeah, definitely not good. _

He booked it out of there while she was turned, salt fisted in his palm. Glancing back as he reached the threshhold, he jumped, heart hammering in his throat as she was suddenly less than a foot away, body twisting forward as she screamed in his face noiselessly. Her mouth was missing its tongue and was a slick mess of red and black. He flung the salt at her even as he was knocked back through the doorway, his light spinning from his hand and skittering across the floor before going out. 

For a moment, all was darkness, and the straining of his lungs as he lay on the floor trying to catch his breath. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making his blood roar in his ears. He hugged the canister of salt to him with one arm, grateful to have not lost hold of it, his only weapon. It was a shame he’d had to lose the lighter fluid, but he could always get more.

He couldn’t sense her. And she wasn’t killing him. Maybe he’d gotten her with the salt? Or could it be she was confined to that room? 

Something grabbed his shoulder. 

“Aaaughhh!” he yelled as he nearly jumped out of his skin. He struck at it reflexively and felt his arm connect with something solid. Well, that was a little too convenient, for a spirit. Those tricky bastards liked to go all incorporeal when you tried to fight back. Salt was about the only thing that amounted to pissing in their cornflakes. What freaked him out were the ones that popped back seconds later, usually right in your face. Ms. Tongueless seemed the type.

He heard someone let out a pained cough. “Ow, you jerk.”

“Sam?” Dean said in a shocked whisper. “Sam! What the hell are you doing down here?”

“I followed you,” Sam whispered back. “Though I’m starting to rethink the ‘good idea’ part of doing so.”

“Where’s your light?” Dean asked quickly, hoping that Sam had come bearing  _ something _ . He had the sinking feeling there would be nothing. “Salt? Anything?”

“I didn’t have one. I just had to feel my way along.”

Dean cursed. “So you came down here completely unprepared??” College must’ve rotted the boy’s brain. Dad would be beside himself; all that training, down the crapper.

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Did you see it?” he said urgently.

“No. I heard something, and saw your light get knocked out.”

“Great. So now we’re running blind. I’ll never find that flashlight in the dark and I am  _ not _ patting down the entire area.” He let out an audible breath. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“Agreed. This isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, even with a flashlight.”

“At least I still have the lighter.” He flicked the flame to life and peered at Sam briefly as if making sure he wasn’t a zombie.

“Dean,” Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s me, okay?”

Dean flipped the lighter closed, plunging them back into darkness. “Here, take this.” He pressed a weirdly shaped object with vertical ridges into his brother’s hand.

“What the hell is it?”

“Salt shaker. If you see or feel something, shake it at the thing.” He grabbed the canister of salt, pulling the metal spout forward, and started drawing a line on the floor from one wall to the other, just past where he estimated the doorway to be. Aside from the carved beauty, who didn’t seem to be reappearing, there was no telling what else might be roaming around. Most spirits gave off a faint radioactive glow, but some didn’t. He was betting the kind that didn’t would be the kind to sneak up on a guy without a flashlight.

“Now what are you doing?” 

“Salt line. I don’t want anything trying to gank me from behind.”

“You really think that’ll be a problem?” Sam asked dubiously.

Dean shrugged, though Sam couldn’t see it. “Could be. It’s better not to take chances.” The immediate danger did seem to be over. But he would definitely need to come back to torch whatever bit of the ghost’s physical remains were keeping it here and foaming at the mouth.

He finished laying the line. When he was done, he started walking back up the tunnel, saying, “All right, let’s go.”

They walked for several minutes in silence, with their shoes making the only noise. It was not as completely dead black as Dean thought it would be. The moonlight was just enough to navigate by without having to touch the walls to keep from running into them. He still would have preferred his flashlight though.

Sam broke the silence first. “So, uh... Is this the sort of bonding you and Dad used to do?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it bonding.”

“But saying there are things down here that could kill you,” Sam said delicately, “why in the hell would you seek it out? Isn’t that kind of crazy?”

“Somebody has to.”

“Has to what?? Get themselves killed?”

“Sammy,” Dean sighed. “Look, I know you were too young for Dad to really take you out hunting, but you know what he taught you. You can’t have forgotten it all.”

“What, laying spirits to rest?” He sounded skeptical. “I know, but... it seems a little unreal from over here.”

“So I guess Mom brainwashed you then?”

Sam stopped walking and let out a heavy breath. “ _ Dean _ . Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just  _ maybe _ everything Dad told us wasn’t real?”

“What are you talking about,” Dean said dismissively. “Of course it’s real.”

“But what if-” Sam stepped around in front of him, putting his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “ _What_ _if..._ it’s real to him, but none of it really exists?”

Dean let out an aggravated noise and batted his hands away. “Nice,” he said as he resumed walking. “So what I saw back there doesn’t exist, huh?” Anger was creeping into his voice. “So what, I’m crazy now? Seeing things?”

“I don’t know, Dean.” Sam was sounding a little exasperated himself. “I’m just saying ‘ _ what if _ ?’.”

“Yeah, well if you’re talking like that then you must think this is the perfect fucking place for me to rot away in,” Dean said disparagingly. “You know,” he laughed humorlessly, “You better hope to hell they don’t think of something to find wrong with you, or they’ll have you drugged up so good you won’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. Then you’ll never set foot out of here, or have the Candyland kind of life Mom must’ve convinced you is out there.”

Sam gritted his teeth and took a moment before trying to speak. “You know that’s  _ not _ what I think.”

“No, I _ don’t _ .”

“Besides,” Sam said shortly. “I’m not leaving here without you. Even if you are being an asshole.”

The scuffing of Dean’s footfalls ceased. “What do you mean by that?” He sounded wary, on edge.

Sam sighed and wet his lips. “I’m saying that I’m going to get you out of here. And until that happens, I’ll convince them I need to be here.”

“No, Sam. I won’t let you.” Dean sounded adamant. “I’m  _ telling _ you, if you give them even one tiny thing to poke at--”

“Dean, you can’t stop me,” Sam’s voice was low and steely. “It’s my choice. I’ve been without my brother long enough. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Goddamn stubborn...” Dean muttered under his breath as he resumed walking.

“With as much as you say that, you’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

“Don’t get cute with me, Sammy,” he said shortly. The thought of Sam getting stuck in here, too... and of his own volition... it was nuts. He wouldn’t let him. Sam, at least, needed to get out and live his own life. Life had more to offer him than  _ he  _ did, than Oak Grove did, as much as it killed him to admit that.

There was a part of him, though... a very selfish part... that held on to Sam’s words, wanting the devotion they promised. He wanted Sam with him. Whether it was here or on the outside, he didn’t want to lose him again. “Haven’t you got friends out there that’ll be worried about you? Isn’t there work and school you should be thinking about?”

“Sure,” Sam said pensively, not deigning to speak further. 

“What, that’s it? ‘Sure’?” They’d reached the end of the tunnel and entered the basement.

“Yeah,” Sam affirmed shortly, helping him shoulder one of the metal doors shut. “That’s it.” 

Dean felt irritation at his brother bubbling beneath the surface. He looped the chain back around the door handles by feel and replaced the lock after digging about for it in his jacket. Luckily, he hadn’t dropped it. ”So you’d just throw your life away, just like that?” 

Sam sighed heavily and Dean knew it would have been accompanied by an eye roll. “I’m not throwing my life away. I’m just going to be gone a little while.” His tone got a little edgy. “Or is my plan to get you out of here an inconvenience? Maybe you actually like it here? You want to stay cut off from the world, where no one can challenge your point of view or beliefs?” 

Dean shook his head and headed up the stairs, to the facility’s main floor.  _ The things that came out of that boy’s mouth...  _ Like it here? Here?! He had to be fucking kidding. And it was a poor-ass sense of humor he had to make that sort of joke. “Sammy, do me a favor and shut up.”

Sam came up the stairs behind him, joining him in the visible dark at the top of the stairs. He glared at Dean. “Why don’t you want anyone to help you?” he said in a hushed voice.

“Not anyone,  **_you_ ** .” Dean said just as quietly, returning the petulant look. “I don’t want  _ you _ to help me.”

“Well, why not? Is it because I didn’t let you--”

Dean clapped a hand over Sam’s mouth before he could voice the rest. The last thing he needed to hear was some crap like that - that Sam thought he was being difficult because Sam had monkey-wrenched them getting sexually involved. “Watch your mouth,” he said sharply, “and don’t you  _ ever _ try saying something like that again.” Even though his was pissed, he couldn’t help noting how soft and enticing Sam’s lips felt against his fingers. “Sam, I’ve been _ trying _ to leave. I want out of here, and all the damn places like this I’ve been in. But I do  **not** want you doing anything stupid which will screw up your life, okay? Not for me. I couldn’t stand that.”

Sam pulled Dean’s hand down from his mouth, lips trailing skin. “I’ve barely thought about anything outside of this place since coming here.” 

“Well, you should.” Dean pulled his hand back and looked away. Sam had a knack for saying things that were questionable. Between his words and his straightforward, keen gaze, Dean was becoming taken with the urge to pull him close again and crush his mouth against those lips of his.  _ No. Bad dog. _ “Come on, let’s get out of here. They do patrol at night, you know.”

Sam followed him in silence as they made their way back to their room. The darkened halls were a little spooky, but were clear of any other living beings.

“Dean,” Sam said under his breath, after a time, keeping pace so he could speak in his ear. “What would you say if I told you Dad might be coming here?”

Dean shot him a perturbed look. “I’d ask you how you knew that?”

Sam’s gaze drifted off of him and he looked straight ahead, his countenance a bit rigid. “I’ve been having these dreams lately...”

“Dreams?” Dean said incredulously. “You’re telling me you believe something’s going to happen because of some dream?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, hell, maybe you are in the right place after all.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, “I’m serious.”

“Yeah? Well so am I.”

Sam ran a hand over his face. “Remember when I was in third grade, and I was convinced that some black dogs were going to come after me?”

Dean laughed a little. “You were scared shitless for almost two weeks.”

Sam smacked him. “And you remember what happened??”

“Oh yeah, some old bat’s Chihuahuas set themselves on you. That was a freaking riot.”

“That wasn’t funny, Dean, I needed stitches.”

Dean chuckled. “Sorry Sammy, it  _ was _ funny. You shoulda seen the look on your face when the three of them chased you home.”

“One was a Maltese.”

“Not helping your case, bro,” he laughed.

“Okay, whatever,” Sam said in irritation. “The point is, sometimes I kind of... see stuff before it happens. Not always as clearly as would be  _ helpful _ . The dogs I saw in the dream had looked intimidating, but mostly it was just the jaws I saw snapping at me.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How about in 4th grade, when I kept telling you Dad was going to get hurt?”

Dean rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, I sorta remember something about that. He got injured on a hunt and had to tell Mom it happened at the shop. Man, did she look suspicious.”

“So I’m telling you,” Sam labored to say, “I keep having dreams about the Impala, and I think Dad is coming.”

“Sammy,” he interrupted, derailing Sam’s train of thought to broach something that had come to mind, “let me ask you something.” It wasn’t that he believed in prophetic or psychic dreams, certainly not when coming from his kid brother, but... there was a good deal of coincidence involved here, so there must be something to it. Whether it was extra-sensory perception or uncanny intuition, he didn’t know, but it raised the same question.

“What?”

“You’ve been having these freaky fortune-telling dreams of yours...” Dean trailed off with a frown, not sure exactly what he was trying to say. He gave Sam an uneasy, speculative look.

“...uh, yeah?” Sam prompted.

Dean chewed at the inside of his lip, picking words. “Was that the kind of dream you had when you said you were dreaming about me?” It kind of wigged him out, wondering what kind of truths his brother was uncovering if this mumbo jumbo had any merit.

Sam froze, suspiciously stock still for a moment, eyes wide. “No,” he said too quickly. Then mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“Liar,” Dean said, rounding on him. “What did you see?”

Sam backed away, shaking his head, “Nothing. I didn’t see anything.” He was trying to cover for it, but he looked spooked.

Dean moved forward, dogging him until his back hit the wall, making Sam jump. “Sammy,” he warned. “I’m prepared to force it out of you.”

“Just let it go, Dean,” he said as he looked away, his brows drawn together. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh really?” Dean said. “So you had some dream involving me, which had quite an  _ interesting  _ effect on you, and you say it was unimportant?”

Sam’s face flushed and he could see it. “I dreamed about a lot of things.”

Dean violated Sam’s personal space threateningly, his gaze hooded and focused. Inches away from his brother’s face, he said, “You specifically mentioned _ me _ .” 

Sam looked shifty and he wet his lips. “Yeah. I... saw you trying to kill Gordon.”

“And?” he drifted closer, wanting to make Sam talk by putting the pressure on. Though if Sam decided not to, he could follow through on the threat and feel that mouth against his again. He tried to put such thoughts aside, but they kept bobbing to the surface of his mind. “That can’t be all,” he murmured, watching as Sam got even more twitchy, and his face colored further. It was a game. The closer he drew, the more frequently Sam’s dark grey eyes flicked to him and the darker they got.

“You shot him,” Sam said, eyes almost solidly on him now. “You said he was a monster, but he was only human.”

Dean put that away to process later. He was entirely too focused on this game of cat and mouse at the moment. “Unless seeing someone get killed gets you off, there was something else.”

Sam’s heart was beating in his chest like it was trying to bust through his ribs as Dean leaned in, close enough that he could feel soft breath on his lips. His thoughts were going hazy as he tried to focus and resist giving up the truth that would damn him. His body was like one live nerve, pulsing with electricity. He’d been set on defying Dean’s prediction, so he had not given in to relieving the pressure in his system from earlier. It was coming back to haunt him now.

“Sammy?” Dean prompted, his voice dipping lower and skating through Sam’s belly. 

“You...” he said hoarsely. “You, uh.... kisse--”

And then Dean’s mouth was brushing against his, quickening his desire and sealing it in with the slow melding of lips and tongues. 

His eyes drifted closed as Dean pressed against him, deepening the kiss, passion throttling him senseless. 

Why was it so hard to say no to this?

He knew it was wrong, in so many ways... but then, why did it feel so right?

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - “Legend of the Black Shawarma”**

[music]

[vocal distortions]

[music]

_ Ahhaah _

_ Ahhhhaaaaah _

Take one look at yourself, and realize

Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise

And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes

How you treated your life, it wasn't too wise

Cause its getting closer

[x2]

Cause it's getting closer

Cause it's getting closeeeer

Cause it's getting closeeEeer...eeahr...Eeaaarh... eAaahr... [vocal distortions]

[music ramping up]

Cause it's getting closer

[x9]

_ Cause it's getting cloSeeeR! _

[music -break-]

Take one look at yourself, and realize

Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise

And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes

How you treated your life, wasn't too wise

Cause it’s getting closer

[x3]

[music]

Take one look at yourself, and realize

Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise

And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes

How you treated your life, wasn't too wise

Cause its getting clos _ EER _


	15. Slowly

**Asylum**

Supernatural, AU

Dean/Sam

* * *

Ch. 15: Slowly  

Desire was a hard knot in Sam’s stomach by the time they made it back to their room. He knew his face was flushed with it as Dean walked him backwards to the bed, as they removed their shirts. Anxiety was also riding him when he was given room to think, but as Dean’s mouth rejoined his, it paled in the face of desire.

There was no spoken agreement, they just both knew somehow that this was going to happen. Dean’s hands slid up his body, over the muscles of his sides, over his ribs, then back down again, touching everywhere and making him throb with need. They lingered upon the waistband of his pants, pulling down on it teasingly, and stroking his hips with dexterous fingers. 

His heart thudded in his chest, anticipation mounting.

Dean slid a hand behind his head then, running it through his hair and clenching a fist in it as he slid within Sam’s mouth with an intuitive tongue. 

He’d never tasted kisses this hot, or felt such desperate longing.

He wondered if he’d be going to hell for this.

He  _ ached _ to be touched. And hell be damned, it had to be Dean. Nothing else would do. Nothing else could come close. He moaned into Dean’s mouth as firm hands slid over his ass and squeezed, grinding their hips together. Sam copied the motion, feeling pleasure spiraling within his gut with increasing intensity. Their breathing was ragged as they clung to each other roughly, fingers digging in and grasping as they moved.

Dean forewent the bed, backing him up against the wall with a solid thud and thrusting against him.

Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head as pleasure started to punch through him, exquisitely painful. He could feel his entire body flushing hot, and knowing that it was Dean’s hard length against his stomach, Dean’s mouth playing at his throat... it was turning him on even more. Like that should even be possible.

He groaned as his body suddenly tensed up, starting to tremor, and he gripped his brother’s shoulders as his back began to arch. Dean’s skin was damp with a fine sheen of sweat under his hands, and that, too, was unbearably sexy to him just then. Sam shuddered violently against him as he lost control, catching a flash of the most erotically lust-filled eyes he’d ever seen before Dean’s mouth crashed against his, swallowing his sounds of pleasure.

Dean’s body tensed against his as he was still riding the aftershocks, head still swimming with the feel of them. 

“Fuck,” Dean swore as he came, bruised lips barely leaving his to utter the word.

His head fell upon Sam’s shoulder, then, as he caught his breath. As they both did.

“I don’t suppose,” Sam said, still winded, “things might be a little awkward after this?” It was kind of meant as a joke. He was still high on the euphoric haze that had settled on him.

“Only if you let it,” Dean responded. “And that’s not funny.”

Sam laughed and slid to the floor, feeling pleasantly worn out. “Kinda was.”

“Idiot,” Dean relented, sliding down next to him and leaning his head against the wall. “Man, I could really go for a beer right about now. How ‘bout you?”

“Sure. But the rain check you give me had better be good for a while.” He tilted his head to look at Dean. “I don’t see us making it to a pub anytime soon.” Actually, being in an asylum was not as bad as Sam thought it would be, at least, not so far. Being stuck in a building, unable to leave, was still something that took some getting used to, though. 

“True,” Dean sighed. “I’m willing to move that to the top of my ‘When I Get Out of Here’ list, though, if you’re game.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam yawned. Suddenly he felt exhausted. Good, but exhausted.

“Sammy?” Dean said uncertainly after a long pause. “We ok?” He didn’t sound tired at all.

“I’ll let you know in the morning,” Sam said gravely, still in a joking mood.

“Ass,” Dean said, shouldering his arm. “I was being serious.”

“Yeah, me too,” he murmured, sleep musing his words. “But I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You gonna sleep right here?” 

“Mmmhmm.”

“On the floor?”

“Mm.”

Dean sighed and Sam felt him sling his arm over his shoulders and drag him to his feet. “No, you’re not. There’s a perfectly good bed less than three feet away. Never knew you were so goddamn lazy, Sammy.”

Dean lowered his body onto the bed, rolled him into it, then threw the sheet over him. 

“Where you going?” Sam asked sleepily as Dean went to his own bed. 

“To sleep where I can’t be killed, in case you get a hair up your ass by the time you wake up.”

Sam’s eyes rolled reflexively, even though his eyes were closed. “Don’t be stupid. Come back over here.” He waited a moment but heard no movement. “Dean,” he called impatiently, craning his head towards the other bed. “If you don’t, I promise to beat the shit out of you  **and** make you miss breakfast.”

“Sonuvabitch,” he heard Dean mutter under his breath. “You  _ would _ , wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” Dean said, his bed creaking as he got up. He flopped down next to Sam, making sure to do it hard enough to bounce the mattress. “Happy?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Sam mumbled, tossing an arm over his waist. Dean’s lean body was warm and comfortable against his, and felt right. Pleasure eddied languidly within him. “G’night,” he murmured before sleep took him.

“‘Night,” Dean said, settling in. 

It was a fragile sort of contentment that stole over Dean, and wonder - that what had happened had just happened, that remnants of pleasure were still warming him and that Sam was sleeping peacefully at his side. His wavy, light brown hair was scattered messily over his forehead, longer now than it had been when he first came here, and Sam’s arm curled around his waist possessively in sleep, almost like a little kid with his favorite toy. Endearing.

It was all much more comfortable than it should have been. Dean figured it still had time to blow up by morning. For now though, he’d just try to pretend everything was fine. 

* * *

The next morning, Dean got up early, a little restless. He guessed he was a little on edge and didn’t think he wanted to linger in bed, waiting to gauge Sam’s frame of mind up-close and personal. They’d gone slowly into this - not going nearly as far as they might have with each other - but in case things went south, he wanted a little distance.

Besides, even if things didn’t go completely in the hole, mornings after were kind of awkward for him anyway. There were always expectations. Some people wanted to lay about forever, ‘cuddling’ and such, or having quasi-romantic, kissy pillowtalk. He wasn’t one for that sort of thing. He had no idea if Sam was, but his brother  _ was _ more of a touchy-feely type, so it was possible... Dean had a half irrational fear, picturing it playing out like that in his head, and thought he might lose respect for Sam if something like that happened.

Sam stirred, catching sight of him pacing with bleary eyes. He promptly dropped his head back on the pillow with a groan. “Should I even ask what you’re doing?”

“Nope.”

He was already found out, so he resumed pacing. He wondered what time it was but couldn’t be bothered to check the clock. He was also hungry as hell, but he wouldn’t be going in to the mess hall without Sam, so eating hadn’t mattered until his brother woke up. And how awkward might this breakfast be?

He realized suddenly that he was terrified. Properly terrified of the consequences of what had happened between them.

He heard rustling and looked back over at Sam who was getting up and pulling on a shirt.

He’d already done the same, not wanting to traipse about half naked, in light of recent events. If anything, right now he was obsessed with damage control. He thought he’d wanted things to change between them, but now he was afraid of what those changes might entail. Now he wondered if he would regret what had happened. What if things just weren’t the same anymore? What if he and Sam didn’t act like they used to?

“Come on, let’s go,” Sam said, breaking the circling of his thoughts. 

“Where?”

“You’re hungry, right?” His grey eyes had an assessing look in their gaze. “So if you’re finished bugging out, then maybe we could grab a bite to eat.”

Dean frowned at him. “I’m not bugging out.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, putting on some shoes. “You are.”

Dean chewed on that and found he had nothing he could really say. “Well, even if I was, could you blame me?”

“Technically? Since you started it? Yeah, I could.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault things happened?” Shit. He was feeling defensive. “You’re mad now?”

Sam tossed him a leveling look. “You want me to be mad? You want me to tell you how messed up this is, and how it’s all your fault and that you’ve ruined my life?”

Dean blinked at him, shaking his head as the words were hitting him like sucker punches. It was everything he was afraid of, being sarcastically thrown back in his face. “Well, _ no _ , I...”

“Look, let’s just eat, and if you feel the need to _ talk _ about this later, fine.”

Dean frowned harder. “ _ Fine _ .” Sam was making him sound like a freaking girl. “Bitch,” he added after a moment.

“Jerk,” Sam tossed out over his shoulder as he left the room.

* * *

“Looks like it’s not too crowded here at this time,” Sam said, looking around the cafeteria as he drank some coffee.

“Mn,” Dean said, across the table from him, taking a huge bite of pancakes and home fries. He was in a much better mood now, seeing that they could bicker like before. Nothing seemed wholly amiss in the way they dealt with each other, and that was a load off. The only difference then, was this new dimension that may have been instituted in their relationship. But there was no telling if it would stick or if they would be passing it off as something to forget about.

Dean swallowed his mouthful of food and said, “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

“Maybe later. I just wanted coffee.”

Sam had faint circles under his eyes. He wondered if he did too. They hadn’t slept long. Hell, they hadn’t even been in the room more than a few hours after coming back from the expedition to the basement tunnels.

“Winchesterrr,” a familiar voice said in greeting, and Garth slid onto the bench next to him. He looked a little less twitchy than normal, a cup of coffee held tightly in his hand that was already half empty. It was likely his third. His hair was still a crazy ginger-colored cloud about his head, making him look like a mad scientist. “Heard you were in Solitary till last night.”

“Yeah. Fun stuff.” Dean shrugged it off and resumed eating, not bothering to correct him that he’d gotten out of Solitary earlier than intel claimed. He wondered why Garth just happened to be here right now when he wanted to be alone with Sam and try and get a handle on things. Though it wasn’t completely unusual that the man was here at this hour. Sometimes Garth came into the mess hall early; occasionally they’d even eat together. He guessed that today it was just his bad luck.

“You look tired,” Garth observed.

“So does Campbell,” Jared observed in turn, sliding onto the bench next to Sam, across from Dean, a loaded tray in his hands. He fancied himself a bodybuilder and could sure eat like one.

Dean felt the room closing in on him as the other bookend arrived. Garth by himself might not have been too much trouble, bet get at least two members of the card circle together and they easily got each other going. He already knew what was coming, the guys had been ribbing him over Sam for some time now. “Guys, I’d kinda like to eat alone, if you don’t mind,” he said brusquely, then took a swig of coffee, radiating, _ Go the fuck away _ .

Jared looked at Garth, and Garth looked at Jared.

“You don’t look so alone to me.” Jared turned to Sam and casually looked him over. “You’re Sam, right? The roommate?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said, looking like he was wondering what might have been said about him as he shook Jared’s offered hand.

“Nice to meet you, finally,” the weightlifter said in a tone that implied all sorts of things. He smiled at Sam in a friendly manner as if unaware of his growing unease.

“Knock it off,” Dean said, spearing some crispy potatoes on his fork and shoveling them into his mouth. They were good this morning. Nice and spicy. “You know I didn’t say shit about anything,” he said around the food. Jared was just having some fun messing with Sam’s head.

“Yeah, your entire m.o. is not saying shit about much of anything,” Jared agreed, settling his attention back to his tray. “But I can’t help noticing how  _ tired  _ you both look,” he continued in mock concern, buttering a piece of toast from his mountain of food. “Wild night?”

To Sam’s credit, he didn’t choke, even though he’d been taking what looked to be a hefty swig of coffee at that precise moment. “Yeah,” Dean said with a smile, “Kept him up all night while boning one _ hot _ ass nurse who was sent in to take care of me. Who said Solitary doesn’t come with some perks?” 

“Too bad it was all in your head,” Garth said, snickering a little. “No one would let a hot nurse anywhere near  _ you _ .” His mouth was twitching into a smile as he drained his coffee mug. “Not with your track record.”

“Sounds like you have quite a reputation, Dean,” Sam said with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Kid,” Garth said, “you got  _ no _ idea.”

Dean inwardly cringed. He didn’t really regret anything he’d done, but he also didn’t fancy the thought of Sam seeing this side of him. 

Getting laid as frequently as possible and with as many partners as he could coerce into it had been an outlet for him in this place, a way of feeling wanted when everything around him was so jacked up and unreal. Sex felt real. It felt like being alive, and it did a damn good job of making a person feel cared for, even if for a little while. He guessed he also sort of thought that way about it even before coming to the crazy house. 

Looking at it through the rose-tinted lenses of Sam’s more rigid morality, however...

...he didn’t feel proud of it. He wanted to sweep it aside and not allow it to be scrutinized. He didn’t want to be judged for it, and he was afraid Sam would look down on him because of it.  

“The stories I could tell you...” Garth was saying.

“Nobody wants to hear that shit over breakfast, man, come on,” Dean said, sincerely hoping he dropped it. He focused as best as he could on eating and  **not** letting himself look over at Sam in order to gauge his reaction to all this. His appetite was becoming tenuous.

“I dunno,” Sam said lazily, “I think I might.” Dean glanced up at him and Sam was resting his chin on his hand, regarding him with a placid expression he couldn’t read. The subject might be pissing him off or just catching his interest and Dean wouldn’t have been able to tell. “You’re right,” his brother continued to the table’s other occupants, “Dean doesn’t say much about himself at all.”

“Get used to it, Campbell,” Jared said good-naturedly between mouthfuls of toast. “He’s one secretive bastard.  _ And _ he cheats at cards.”

“I do  _ not _ , you all just suck.”

“Did somebody say ‘SUCK’?” Pokey asked, manifesting out of nowhere and adding to Dean’s aggravation. “Hey Garth, Jared,” he nodded as he sat down with a bowl of cereal and stared at Sam. 

“Uh, hi,” Sam said to him, probably hoping to break the tension. “I’m Sa--”

“Sam,” Pokey finished his sentence as he raised a glass of orange juice to his mouth. “I know. I’m Lew--”

“His name’s Pokey,” Dean cut in. “Don’t let him tell you any different. He’s a goddamned liar.”

“I don’t lie,” Pokey said indignantly, putting his glass of orange juice back down before he’d taken take a sip.

“You’re doing it right now,” Garth hummed.

“Fuckers,” Pokey muttered.

“Where’s Garnet?” Jared asked him.

“Dunno,” Pokey started in on his cereal. “He was gone when I woke up.” He crunched through the cornflakes for a minute, looking thoughtful, his eyes drifting back over to Sam and regarding him with an appraising gaze. “You eat already, Campbell? Or are you just trying to watch your girlish figure?”

Dean tensed, hoping Sam didn’t take the jibe too badly. He seemed to have a sore spot for ‘girl’ comments like that. Usually it was about his hair, but sometimes not. 

Sam tipped his coffee back, finishing it off, and Dean could see his jaw was slightly set. “I’m out of coffee,” he said, getting up.

Dean finished the dregs of his coffee off and said, “Me, too.” He took his empty mug and followed Sam back to the corner at the end of the food line, where kitchen staff had the coffee stuff set up for them. “Hey, what’s up?” he said as he caught up to him.

“Nothing.”

Sam pulled the lever on the dispenser, pouring coffee into the plain little white ceramic mug.

“Sammy,” Dean insisted, “what is it?”

“Nothing, Dean,” he responded in an irritated voice.

“Well, it can’t be nothing if you’re acting bitchy,” Dean reasoned, nodding his head at all of Sam.

Pissed off grey eyes flashed at him. “You may think you’re trying to help, but you’re really not.”

Dean shrugged and put his own mug under the nozzle, filling it up. “Just thought maybe what that little shit said got to you.” 

“Were these the ‘friends’ you mentioned?” Sam asked shortly, splashing some creamer into his coffee.

“Yeah. Like I said, take them with a grain of salt.” Dean poured some milk into his. “They’re not bad guys.”

Sam stalled at the counter, stirring his java with one of those pointless little plastic straws and giving them a little more time before they returned to the table. “They weren’t making up that other stuff either, were they? About you and your exploits?”

Dean frowned and leaned on the counter, staring at the milk and coffee swirling slowly together in his mug. “It isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

“I fail to see how it could be better than it sounds.”

“Sam,” Dean started in a terse tone, looking up at him. He quickly felt at a loss of what to say. Sam’s grey eyes seemed reserved, maybe a little anxious. “Look, it’s got nothing to do with you. All right?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said under his breath as he looked away.

“Sammy,” he said shortly, keeping his voice hushed so that others nearby couldn’t hear so easily. He sort of had the feeling Sam was thinking he might just be another of his exploits and that what happened between them didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot. “You’re different, you always have been.” He made Sam meet his eyes, and tried to get through to him. “You’re my  _ brother _ . I need you.”

Again, the quality of Sam’s expression escaped him as they looked at each other, though it was intense. Perturbed? Relieved? Dammit, he couldn’t tell. He never used to have this sort of trouble. He used to be able to read Sammy like a book. 

Something struck him then. “Sam, you’re not jealous, are you?”

“What?” Sam made an irritated face and looked away, busying himself with adding some sugar to his coffee. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh, thank god that’s all it is,” Dean said with relief at Sam’s reaction. He was back on more familiar ground, now - Sam’s evasion techniques were transparent like water. 

“I said, that’s not--” Sam hissed under his breath.

“Then why are you starting to blush?” he said drolly, with a lift of his eyebrows.

“I’m  _ not _ ,” Sam denied, shoving him with his shoulder. They were taking too long at the coffee station. It was bound to elicit notice. “Where did you get such an over-inflated ego from?”

“I could show you,” Dean said suggestively, “but I doubt you’d want a roomful of witnesses.” As expected, he watched the color on Sam’s face become more vivid with his teasing.

“Jerk,” Sam said, eyes flashing at him.

“Bitch,” Dean drawled with a charming smile. He could see he was getting to Sam - their eyes were doing that interlocking thing and everything outside of the two of them was starting to fade into the background. 

He really wanted to press his lips against that sullen mouth, and feel it open up for him again. It was such a rush each time it had happened. And last night, especially... _ god _ , the way Sam had kissed him when he’d finally given up on fighting this thing between them... it was so  _ hot _ and he couldn’t get it out of his head.

“Dean,” Sam said, not for the first time, gaining his attention. His voice sounded slightly rough, and affected. “Maybe you shouldn’t look at me like that in public.”

“Like what?” he asked, just to see how Sam would put it. His eyes flicked up to Sam’s and his eyes looked dark, compelling.

“Like you’re thinking of throwing me up against the counter, the way you threw me up against the wall last night.”

“If there was no one here,” Dean said in a slightly husky voice, pinning Sam with his eyes, “would you let me?” He was becoming utterly fascinated with Sam again, his reactions and the expressions he was making. It was bringing back the tight, thrumming ache that Sam so easily inspired, which they’d laid to rest not so long ago. 

Sam looked away, licking his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I could be done with breakfast,” he suggested, desire twining through him insistently. “If you wanna go back to the room?”

“Dean,” Sam sounded torn, but Dean loved the way he said his name. “You really think that’s a good idea?” He motioned to their table with his eyes. All three of their companions were watching them with interest.

“Aw, nosey bastards,” Dean said under his breath. They’d be all over him if they left now. He’d be hearing about it for weeks.

“And not just them,” Sam said in a quiet, earnest voice, grabbing his attention. “We have to work this out before it goes any further, don’t you think?”

Dean ran his hand through his hair, exercising some self-control. “Yeah, you’re right.” He was massively jumping the gun, wanting to jump Sam again before they even made sure they were okay with what had happened so far. “Sorry.”

“Look, go back to the table and I’ll grab a bagel or something, okay?”

Yeah, it would be easier to handle the guys that way, if they didn’t return together, especially when he’d jumped up after Sam and then they’d spent so long just ‘getting coffee’. “Sure. Grab me something extra, would ya?”

Sam shrugged and went to get in line. The cafeteria was starting to fill up fast.

Dean made his way back to the table, one of the guys subtly doing a catcall whistle at him.

“And you say you’re not doing him,” Jared said, shaking his head as Dean took his seat. “You must be dealing with one serious case of U.S.T. then.”

“Says who?” Dean said dismissively. His food had gotten a little cold, but not too bad. Certainly quite edible still.

“Wait,” Pokey said in confusion, “what’s  _ ‘U.S.T. _ ’?”

“Unresolved Sexual Tension,” Garnet supplied, announcing his arrival and sliding onto the bench next to Pokey. “Idiot.” The lean, 20-something biker looked around the table with his normal, inexpressive face on. He was wearing a white tanktop, and his long black hair was wet and hung about his shoulders unbound. He was probably just back from the showers. “Who are we talking about? Dean and Campbell?”

Dean shot him an irritated look. “ _ That  _ was your first guess?”

Garnet shrugged and reached across the table in front of Pokey to steal the top pancake off of Dean’s plate, diminished though it was.

“Dude!” Dean said, throwing his hands up and giving him a  _ what the hell _ look. “What’s with this pow-wow anyway?” He glanced around the table accusingly. “I never see all of you in here at once.”

“Don’t be racist, man,” Garnet said, taking a bite of the pancake in his hand. “The white man’s kept us down long enough.” He was actually joking, in his deadpan way.

“Shut up, thief,” Dean said indignantly, lamenting the loss of his hotcake. 

“At least I’m not an Indian-giver,” Garnet said, dark eyes looking somewhat amused as he ate Dean’s pancake, which was dripping a little maple syrup onto the table. 

“That’s because you gave him shit that wasn’t _ yours _ , G,” Pokey said, still miffed over the loss of his alcohol. 

“Stupid,” Garnet taunted his roommate. “Do you even know what the term means? It doesn’t matter whose it was, but I’d have to take it back or want something in return.” The young man shook his head as Pokey spluttered, ribbing him further. “Did your mama drop you on the head as a kid or were you born this way?”

They quibbled back and forth a bit, obviously quite used to doing so.

“Oh, thank god,” Dean said as Sam returned to the table. He held his hand out for whatever Sam had decided to grab for him, which happened to be a plate of sausage links. “I’m gonna starve with these vultures around me.”

“You don’t look like you’re gonna starve to me,” Garnet commented, blithely stealing a link from the plate before Dean could set it down.

“Goddamnit, get your own food,” Dean said in exasperation.

“Too much trouble.”

“You can have this,” Sam offered, sliding the plate with his toasted, buttered bagel on it in front of the guy.

“Wow, thanks, man,” Garnet said with some enthusiasm. He took one half and pushed the plate back to Sam, intending him to eat the other half himself. “You are officially not on my shit list.” He glanced at him with tilted eyes. “You’re nice, how can you stand being in a room with Winchester?”

“Practice?”

Garnet took a bite of bagel and considered that. “Must be a fast learner,” he said astutely. “You haven’t been awake that long.”

Sam shrugged, wanting to smack himself for his slip up. He had to remember that no one knew they’d grown up together, or that they were family. Here, they had only known each other a short while. He’d have to be more careful around this long-haired guy. He was sharp.

“Name’s Garnet,” the guy said by way of introduction. He looked part Native American, and sort of young, like they might be around the same age. 

“Sam,” Sam said.

Garnet nodded sagely.

Sam gave him an assessing look. “Let me guess, you already knew that?”

“You’re as sharp as you look,” he replied with a slight smile, some of his hair sliding over his shoulder as he bit into the bagel. 

“Is there a reason, or does everyone just know about everything in this place?”

“Not everything,” Jared chimed in with a wave of his fork. “But it’d be hard not to notice someone who managed to get Dean here all wadded up.”

Dean shook his head and rolled his eyes, indicating that was a load of crap. He continued to eat.

“Yeah, we had to suspend our card games on more than one occasion,” Garth said regretfully. “Cancelled on account of his temper, or his getting thrown into The Clink for one thing or another.”

Garnet snickered. “Good one, man.”

Garth nodded, looked pleased with himself.

“I don’t get it!” Pokey said to Garnet in irritation. “Why don’t you jump on him for using words wrong? We don’t have a prison here.”

Garnet gave his roommate a long-suffering look. “Because the reference was a joke?” Pokey was still shaking his head looking angry. Garnet elaborated, “The Clink was a notorious prison in England back in the day, owned by the Bishop of Winchester?”

Pokey’s expression soured further. “How do you even  _ know _ things like that?! What the hell?”

Garnet shrugged. “I read?”

“All right, ladies,” Dean said, wiping his hands on his napkin and tossing it down. “I’ll leave you to your knitting circle.” He rose to his feet. “I promised to show Campbell that poor excuse for a library we have.”

“Sure, eat and run,” Jared said, close to done with his own meal. He looked up at Sam. “If you get bored, come and check out the gym. You look like you work out from time to time.”

“I’ll do that.” Sam nodded at them and followed Dean out of the cafeteria.

Jared watched them go, then rested his muscled arms on the table as he regarded each of his mates with a serious expression. “All right, men,” he announced, leaning forward, “place your bets.”

“You can’t be serious,” Pokey protested. “We’re really betting on  _ this _ ?”

“Two weeks,” Garth said. “If we’re talking the full deal.”

“Pfft,” Garnet scoffed. “Two days. And it’s obvious something happened already, so we’re  _ definitely _ talking the full deal.”

Jared whistled. “Two days, huh? Feeling conservative?” he joked.

Garnet shrugged. “Yeah, well I saw them up close when they were getting coffee. Seems practically a done deal to me.”

“Guys,” Pokey tried again. “This is  _ Dean _ we’re talking about. Joking aside, I really don’t see him going for another dude.”

Garnet leaned back with a sigh, tilting his head to the ceiling. “Since you are the only one who can’t see it, it’s obvious that you’re the one who needs to get a clue.”

“Just place your bet, Lewis,” Jared told him. “Otherwise you’re really going to regret your losses.”

“No,” Pokey stressed. “I’m not betting on this.”

“Group rules say you can’t pick and choose the bets,” the weightlifter reminded him. “You’re either in or you’re out.”

“Dammit,” the small man said, looking aggrieved. “Three... weeks?”

“I give it one week,” Jared said. “I agree with Garnet, but I also think Campbell’s got a stubborn streak in him. Almost as big as the one Winchester’s got.”

“Agreed,” Garth said. “But that’s why I’m giving it two.”

“I’m telling you guys,” Garnet said, shaking his head. “They’ll fold before then.”

“I am  _ so _ unhappy about this conversation right now,” Pokey lamented.

“Shut up, Poke,” Garnet said amiably, “Or I’m going to start questioning which one of them you’ve got a crush on.”

“Hm,” Garth said, rubbing his stubble covered chin. “That would be a tricky one. Can’t be Dean, unless Lewis likes having someone’s boot up his ass.”

“Gah,” the small man said, holding his head in his hands. “Leave me out of this! I put in my bet.”

“You shoulda seen him staring at Campbell when he came in,” Jared added, joining the bandwagon. 

“Because we’re always giving Dean shit about having a thing for his roommate,” Lewis desperately tried to explain. “I was trying to see if I could see it.”

“Uh huh,” Jared razzed him. “Looked more like you had some drool running down your chin.”

Lewis turned 9 shades of red and spluttered angrily.

Garnet snickered. Pokey was hilarious when he got all indignant and lost the ability to talk in fully formed words. “You know,” he said to them all, catching their eyes with the intensity and flair of a house dealer, “a more challenging bet might be who would top.”

* * *

TBC

**A/N:** Chapter title from Infected Mushroom - “Slowly”

  
  



End file.
